


What He Does When You're Asleep

by KellerProcess



Series: What He Does When You're Asleep [1]
Category: Pacific Rim
Genre: (don't worry they're really minor characters!), Anxiety Disorder, Bipolar Newt, Boatloads of OCs, Canon disabled characters, Hannibal Chau's funtime thug band, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Multi, Newt really likes cock, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, author's inept attempt to portray MMORPG gaming, author's inept attempt to portray military science, disabled characters being awesome, most of whom are awesome women, newt stinks at feelings, practicing Catholic!Hermann, sex in exchange for goods, the shatterdome mmorpg team, unsurprisingly Newt has a kaiju and tentacle fetish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 17:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 105,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Friday evening, Hermann Gottlieb departs the Shatterdome for reasons unknown, purposes unknown, and a person unknown, and the unknown is driving Newt Geiszler to  distraction. And with the help of his MMORPG guild, he intends to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cryogenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenia/gifts).



In the ten years Newton Geiszler had worked alongside Hermann Gottlieb, he was never convinced that his colleague had much resembling a personal life beyond serving at Mass three times a week, arguing with his father in pitched German over SkypeRED, and cleaning every surface until it shone. Twice. And, okay, sure, Rubix cubes and Russian literature and baking pies, because Hermann was boring and stuffy like that. But these were hobbies, lifestyle choices, and a more than slightly dysfunctional family headed by a man who probably would have just loved Andre Maginot. Not at all what Newt thought of as a personal life—which meant, basically—

“Sex,” he said to himself.

And then realized he’d said it out loud.

In the laboratory. That he shared with Hermann.

With Hermann sitting at his computer no less than ten feet away.

He didn’t even have to look up to imagine his colleague raising his head and scowling even more than he usually did before shaking his head. “Newton, I can appreciate the need for talking to oneself more than anyone, but there’s no need to be vulgar.”

Aaand this would be one of the reasons why dicing apples was probably the most erotic thing Hermann would ever do. “Dude, what?” Newt laughed. “Sex is only vulgar if you were born in, like, 1950.”

“Yes, well, I’d prefer to keep it out of my laboratory, thank you. We’ve enough”—Hermann gestured errantly with his left hand—“ _biology_ in here as it is.”

Biology. Yeah. Guy probably didn’t know his cock from chalk. Actually, no. On second thought, ow. “Whatever,” he snorted. “And since you’re just going to write me up for this anyway, here, let me make it worth your time. Sex, sex, sexity, sex, sex, sex. Bam! Vulgarity report fifty percent complete. Just add whining. And ugly cursive.”

Sighing, Hermann pulled his cane from the stand to the right of his chair and levered himself to his feet. “Unfortunately, human resources has yet to act upon a single grievance I have filed, as you are no doubt well-aware. Like the rest of this Shatterdome, they probably find your antics amusing. And in any case,” he said as he walked toward the door, “I haven’t the time.”

“But it’s only 1700—they’re open ’til 1800 on a Friday,” Newt said, sliding his feet up onto his desk and slouching back. “Just take a tea break and go down there for like ten minutes. No one’s gonna be in there this late except people with no lives, like you.”

“Yes, well. Perhaps tonight I have something better to do.” Hermann didn’t turn around as he slipped into his parka; his left trembling hand fumbled the zipper twice before he managed to pull it to his collar.

Newt shook his head. “Tendo cancelled LOCCENT vs. K-Science Extreme Mario Kart night until he could even out the roster now that everyone in K-Science but us is fired.” Then again, it wasn’t like Hermann ever did anything to actually win those nights for K-Sci; he usually just huddled in his parka on the sofa while hogging the Diet Sprite and looking vaguely uncomfortable at anything that wasn’t a quadratic equation when it tried to initiate a conversation with him. Newt knew it was a dick thing to think, but he kind of wondered why Hermann had kept showing up when he was obviously not having fun. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t have a quieter evening in.

“Yes, I know,” his colleague said as he dug into his pockets and retrieved his gloves. “I have a matter in the city to which I must attend.”

“When you say ‘matter’ is that like a grocery shopping matter or an early Christmas present-finding matter or—?”

“A none of your concern matter? Indeed, it is, how astute of you.”

“Wait.” Newton glided off his chair and followed Hermann from their shared lab space. “An independent bookstore-hunting matter?”

“No.”

“A shopping for hentai matter?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“A going for a stiff drink because one more minute basically locked up in the Shatterdome means you’re going to kill us all with a slide ruler matter?”

“Good evening, Newton.”

Newt stopped in the middle of the hallway as the unthinkable occurred to him. “Waaaiiiit… Don’t tell me you’ve got a hot date?”

A joke. He’d meant it as a joke. Everyone knew that the closest thing to a romance Hermann had going was a long and torrid affair with Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem. But from the way Hermann paused there on the sterile gray tiles, Newt was reasonably certain he’d just solved for x.

“Really, Newton,” Hermann chuckled, throwing him a wry glance over one bony shoulder. “Now since when have you known me to be passionately in lust with anything save tira misu and the Tridentine Rite? It is merely mundane but essential business. Please don’t trouble yourself further with chimeras.”

“Uh…okay, but…”

“Have an enjoyable evening, Newton. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bullshit. It was all such obvious bullshit. Newt wanted to tell him that, to run after his colleague and demand that he stop lying and tell him who the person was and why he couldn’t just say their name.

Instead, he just stood there fuming as Hermann walked away, his gate quick and steady in a way that meant he was having a low pain day and was definitely excited about something.

Newt stood there a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

“Newt? Hey, Newt?”

Newt blinked and shook his head as he refocused on the computer monitor. “Huh? Sorry, Tendo. What’s up?”

“We were wondering if you were ready to take Melspar Keep,” Sasha said. “Only you did not answer, so Aleksis has gone now to get vodka while we wait.”

“Oh. Sorry, Sasha. I—”

Tendo sighed. “Sasha, we’ve been through this. Rule three of our guild charter says no drinking alcohol during a raid.”

“Bite me, Choi. Rule was broken when Jin and you were caught with energy drinks. Null and void.”

“Woah, woah!” Jin and Tendo said at once.

“Caffeine is a major food group!” Tendo elaborated. “Do you know how many missions we’ve accomplished courtesy of the java jive keeping me and my crew alert and watching out for your butts?”

“Yeah, I’m with Tendo, and not just because of the saving-our-butts thing,” Jin Wei Tang piped up. “I mean, that’s why we said alcohol and not coffee or tea. Stimulants don’t do the same thing.”

“But vodka does the same thing!” Sasha protested. “But of course you do not understand this, any of you. You are not Russian.”

“Are you having connection problems again, Newt?” Mako asked helpfully, probably equally trying to steer the evening from degenerating into an argument. Again. “I believe tech support is still open. I can call them for you, if you wish.”

“Nah, that’s okay, Mako. It’s been fine since last month,” Newt said before taking another sip of coffee. It was cold. He glanced over to Hermann’s nearly barren side of the room and scowled at the neatly made bed and the recently dusted bookshelf. If Hermann were here, he could have made another pot. Or, if he insisted, maybe some tea. That’s how it usually went on a raid night; Newt and his guild chattering away in one corner while Hermann glared from the other, telling Newt to shut up and stop screaming about taking down dragons and “blood roarks, whatever those are” until, finally, he shoved a pair of noise-canceling headphones on and listened to Beethoven or Gregorian plainchant or, for some reason, Broadway musicals from the 1990s, which Newt kept trying to tell him were the worst—

“Hey, buddy?” Tendo asked, breaking into his thoughts in that tone of voice that meant he was about to say something that would make Newt uncomfortable. “This is a pretty important raid tonight. If you’re not feeling up to it, that’s fine. We can reschedule. But we need to know, okay?”

Everyone else made the same sympathetic noise. Even Sasha mumbled an agreement.

“Thanks, guys,” Newt said, running a hand through his hair as the back of his neck heated. “It’s not…I mean, I’m feeling fine…”

“But?” Jin prompted.

“Nah, it’s stupid.”

“Newt,” Tendo said. “What’s rule number one of the Shatterdome Is Awesome Guild?”

“The guild is my second family,” Newt quoted with a sigh. “I can talk to the guild about anything. Except for bathroom stuff because, seriously, Aleksis, what the hell was that?”

“For the last time, I am sorry!” Aleksis cried. Apparently, he had returned from his vodka run. “I thought I was dying!”

“Man, you should have called medical instead of giving us a description,” Jin reminded him flatly. “I still have nightmares.”

“But this rule is right,” Mako cut in. “We are friends, a team. If something is bothering any of us, we should discuss it.”

“Yeah, it’s okay, Newt. Tell us,” Jin said.

A few others repeated the same sentiment.

Newt sighed. It was ironic, he thought, not in the real way but the Alanis Morisette way. He was always accusing Hermann of not being able to talk to human beings. And now that he needed to, all he could do was feel vaguely nauseous. “It’s Hermann,” he said at last.

“Hello, Hermann!”

“I do not think he has joined chat, lubya,” Sasha told her husband.

“Oh.”

“Are we upsetting him?” Mako asked. “Perhaps we should switch to text.”

“That’s, um, funny you should say that, Mako. That’s actually kind of the problem. See, he’s not here right now.”

“Did you two have a fight or something?” Tendo asked.

“Not this time.”

“And he is not working late in the laboratory?” Mako asked.

“Yeah, he usually goes there if we piss him off too much, but no, no. He’s not there now. Definitely not there.” Newt swallowed. “See, and this is the weird thing, I think he actually has a date.” He forced a laugh that he totally, one-hundred percent did not feel. “Isn’t that weird?”

“I do not understand.” Aleksis said. “Why is he on date when—”

Sasha said something in rapid-fire Russian that included a word that sounded familiar, though Newt couldn’t tell why.

“Oh,” Aleksis said when she had finished. “But—”

“Will you excuse us, please?” Sasha asked as something crinkled across her microphone. She and Alexis had apparently left the chat. Newt thought he heard the sound of distant Russian in Sasha’s deep contralto and her husband’s basso.

Newt sighed and ran his hand over his face. “I’m sorry, guys. You’re right, Tendo. I can’t concentrate for crap tonight. Any way we can kick the shit out of Melspar next Friday?”

If Hermann isn’t out on another date, he fumed.

 _Shut up, Newt_ , his brain answered. _It’s not like he needs to check in and out with you. He’s a grown man with his own life._

_Uh-huh. And until today, that so-called life involved commandeering the kitchen during downtime, vacuuming shit, and rage-Skyping with Daddy Gottlieb. You shut up, brain._

_Newt, bro. You are a total choad. You know that?_

“Newt?”

He sighed again. “Sorry. Yeah. See what I mean, Tendo? A million miles away.”

“Don’t worry, man. You go relax,” Tendo said.

“We’ll kill some bugs; Sasha’s tank probably needs some leveling up, anyway,” Jin added. “My guy does, at least. Still can’t get used to playing an Orc.”

“If you need anything, Newt, please text-message me. I needed to be up after our game anyway, working on some new programming,” Mako added.

Despite himself, Newt grinned. “You guys are the best guild ever.”

“Avatar hug puddle?” Tendo asked.

And Newt laughed at the hopefulness in his voice. God, sometimes the guy was like a freaking puppy. “Okay, okay.” He toggled the keys to move his fire elf toward Tendo’s ranger, Mako’s gunner, and Jin’s mage (Alexis and Sasha’s Kal’varii warlords just stood there, meaning they were probably AFK still, talking about whatever they were talking about).

“Ready?” Tendo chirped.

Shaking his head, Newt tapped out the sequence, and all four characters near-simultaneously did the wave, shook their hips, and glomp-attacked each other.

“Yeah, best guild ever,” Tendo said over their laughter.

As Newt logged out, he wondered why he had let Hermann get him down in the first place. Approximately three minutes later, however, he remembered.

“Fuck this,” he grumbled, pushing back from his desk. He snagged the latest Gundam tankōbon from the pile next to his bed before flopping down in the nest of quilts and sheets. People didn’t get how he could still be reading mecha manga at a time like this, but now that the whole world was basically living in some weird hybrid mecha, sentai, and kaiju reality TV show from hell, Newt had found that the franchise had never been smarter, funnier, or just better.

But clearly it wasn’t good enough to keep him from getting distracted every ten seconds. After reading the same five panels for the tenth time in a row, Newt groaned and tossed the book back to the pile, not giving a damn that he sent the lot toppling onto Hermann’s side of the room. “Good,” he grumbled. “Let him clean them up. Jerkface.”

There was nothing else for it, he decided as he unbuttoned his jeans and fished under his pillow for a different kind of manga. Tentacle porn it was.

_Dammit, Hermann._

Apparently, jerking off twice to a menagerie of kaiju sex fantasies was enough to exhaust anyone. Still, Newt stirred when he heard the door to the dorm room beep open and soft _click-thupp-click_ of someone moving across the uncarpeted floor with a cane.

“Hermann?” he grunted, rubbing his eyes.

The sound stopped mid-click. “Newton? My apologies. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Nhhghn,” Newt groaned. His glasses were askew on his face and the numbers on his clock a messy red cloud until he straightened them. 04:58:18. “Fuck, Hermann. Five hundred fucking hours at the ding-dong of dawn, Jesus balls.”

In the glow from the clock, he saw Hermann’s spindly form straighten. “I do not disrespect your atheism, Newton, wrongheaded though I believe it is. For the last time, please refrain from blaspheming in my presence.”

“Uh-huh.” The numbers clicked over to 4:59:00 as Newt sat up, rubbing his head. “It’s late,” he said. “You just get in?”

“No. I returned an hour ago. A laboratory matter needed my attention.”

“At four hundred hours?”

The closet light on the other side of the room switched on, casting Hermann in an acute angle of amber. He held on to the door with his right hand as his left tugged what appeared to be a nightshirt from a hanger. “I am not on duty until 1100. I assure you, my work will not be compromised. Six hours is adequate sleep for me, as you well know.”

The hell? Newt blinked and blinked as Hermann, shirt in hand, shuffled toward the en suite bathroom. “No, that’s—” He thought about saying twenty things at once, and dismissed them all in favor of, “Aren’t you at least gonna tell me how it went?”

“You, on the other hand, are due for a briefing with the marshal at 0930. I would advise you to go back to sleep, Newton.”

“But—”

“Good night, Newton.”

The bathroom door ticked shut, leaving only the ghost of a yellow outline and the thin wedge of amber from the closet—probably so Hermann didn’t fall on his stupid face on the way to bed.

Newt groaned and stared at the clock as the, silvery strains of running water started up behind the closed door. 05:01:08. At 05:10:15 the faucet stuttered off and more soft sounds replaced its hum—the crumpling of thick terrycloth over pale, heated skin; the damp slab-slab of feet on tile. They had impossibly high arches, Newt thought, like a dancer’s, only the left was crisscrossed with a roadmap of scars in angry red, faded rose, and the palest of ochres. They travelled up a smooth ankle to a calf that looked as though it had been put through a mangle and snaked up past a knee that was held together by pins and plates. And then vanished up under the hem of a blue pair of swim trunks, which, along with an oversize gray shirt was the least amount of clothing he had ever seen Hermann wear.

Not that Newt didn’t have his own theories about the scars’ trajectories after that. They’d continue climbing, like lines of code, Ironside’s tentacles, the digits of Pi, up and up and up a leg that had nearly been pulped in 2013. Up and up pale flesh, the soft spread of encroaching middle age, a nipple like a button…

Newt moaned and rubbed his hand up his cock, making sure to swipe his thumb over the slit. He was half hard already. Huh. When had that happened?

The creak of hinges stopped him mid-stroke. He stilled his hand and snapped his eyes shut as Hermann moved across the floor, his footsteps softer now, definitely encased in slippers. The rumple of a quilt and the shift of a hard mattress, then complete silence.

By 05:20:03, Hermann was breathing deeply.

At 05:45 on the dot, Newt still had a raging boner.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No guild in this chapter. Sorry. But they will return shortly!

Godzilla roared from the speakers on Newt’s laptop, indicating the arrival of a base-to-base internal text. Newt looked up from his coffee and blinked as he maneuvered his chair away from his microscope and a slide of what he believed contained evidence of Kaiju mitochondria.

Godzilla bellowed again, as he would continue to do so every thirty seconds until Newt answered his mail. It was a precaution Newt had enacted shortly after a week where a combination of overwork, an oncoming manic episode, anxiety, and a really, really awesome nearly complete Kaiju GI tract had kept him away from his messages, including one from Marshal Pentecost, who did not particularly appreciate being, as far as he saw it, ignored. So, Newt had figured the easiest way to keep from having both a backlog of five pages and a line of people ready to scream at him was, basically, an alarm clock—and in this case, a really ballin’ one.

“Okay, okay, big fella, chill. I’m coming,” he told it. Fucking hell, why had he made the damn thing so loud? Oh, yeah. Mania tunnel vision.

Godzilla growled.

Across the room, Hermann’s chalk snapped in his hand. “For goodness’s sake, Newton! Please turn down your speakers. Some of us have work to do that is best accomplished unaccompanied by the soundtrack to _Godzilla 2014_.”

Godzilla huffed. Newt agreed.

“Dude, how many times do I have to say I’m sorry?” he asked as he clicked the reminder off—and then the popup that asked him if he was sure. And then the popup that asked him if he was really sure.

“Far more than you have.” Hermann slashed a particularly angry cosine across his board, sheering another half-inch off the hapless chalk stick. “I am not your nanny, Newton, and I resent being treated as one. If you cannot be bothered to set an alarm or go to bed at a reasonable time instead of playing _video games_ like a spoilt first-year student—”

Newt brought out the mocking hand-puppet gesture.

“Then that is your business. Why it is my job as your flatmate to make certain you are up, appropriately dressed, present, and coherent at all necessary meetings I’ve no idea. And I do not—stop that! I demand you stop mocking me at once.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Newton stabbed the enter key to clear the reminder that asked if he’d taken his medication today, and the one that told him to “stop dicking around, future me, and answer your B2Bs—sincerely, past you.” Damn, he really had to delete some of these. “Look, Hermann. I’m sorry you got inconvenienced, but it’s not my fault Pentecost thinks we’re each other’s field trip buddy. If you want him to stop bugging you, write a complaint. He might even read it.”

“That is not the—”

“Zip it, Dr. Strangelove. I’m trying to read this.” Newt clicked the last message away—a link to a clinical study about procrastination—and called up his base-to-base inbox. He touched unread message 661 and opened it.

_To: NGeizler—KSci_

_From: KHo—SShip_

_Dear Dr. Geiszler:_

_A delivery has arrived for you. Please come to dock 3A to confirm delivery and arrange for transportation._

_Personal note: Pretty sure this one has an intact spleen! ;)_

_Sincerely,_

_Kristine Ho_

_Chief of Shipping_

_KHo—Reception_

_V2V connect: S-5216_

_*We totally ship that!*_

Newt blinked and reread the B2B twice. Either his coffee hadn’t kicked in yet, or he had seriously just spaced the equivalent of Christmas Morning, his birthday, and the release of the third A.S. Potter book. The first meant he might now be in the running to unseat Tendo as the Shatterdome’s resident caffeine junkie; the second meant something potentially much worse. He cleared his throat and tried his best to ignore the fissure of anxiety sizzling out from his heart into his fingers.

 _Potentially, man._ Potentially. _You don’t even know if it’s happening yet._

He cleared his throat. “Hey, Hermann?”

“ _What._ ”

“I didn’t say anything to you about a new shipment of Kaiju parts coming in, did I?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Hermann’s sigh sounded ragged enough to be an aborted scream. “Believe me, Newton. If you had, there would be no doubt in my mind. Or the minds of anyone else on this floor.”

“Dude, I’m serious. I just got a message saying I have one, and I don’t remember anything about it.”

He let that hang there for a moment before looking across the laboratory.

Hermann had put his chalk down on the blackboard’s ledge as his brows drew up in concern. “I’m sorry, Newton. I should have realized sooner. The erratic sleeping—”

“Yeah, man. Yeah. I know.” Newt swallowed. “Even I don’t see it coming. That’s the thing.”

Hermann fetched his cane and walked to Newt’s side of the lab, his pace slightly quicker than usual. “When did you last take your medication?”

“Yesterday after lunch. Same as always.”

“Friday’s box is empty?”

Newt nodded and pointed to his pill counter, only two compartments of which contained his diamond-shaped lamotrigine. “Herm, I can’t—I don’t—The last time was...”

Hermann’s hand eased onto his shoulder, the fingers rocking across it in a jerking sort of massage. “Perhaps it’s an error. Or an unscheduled delivery. May I see the message?”

Newt nodded numbly as Hermann leaned over his shoulder and peered at the screen. Something warm pressed against his shoulders—both of Hermann’s hands, he realized.

“No,” Hermann said almost immediately. “No, you did not forget anything. All scheduled deliveries have an order number. This one doesn’t. Do you see?” He tapped the monitor. 

The hand squeezing Newt’s entire circulatory system into a tight little ball eased up slightly. “Oh. Oh, yeah.” He tried for a laugh and nearly succeeded. “Kinda important, I guess, huh?”

The hands did not go away. In fact, two shaky thumb pads were now working at a knot in his trapezius. Newt closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

“That’s good,” Hermann said. “Just as we practiced. Do you need a glass of water? That coffee can’t be helping.”

“No, man. It’s good. I’m good. Thanks.” Still, when Hermann pulled his hands away, Newt wished he had lied. He did his best to flash his colleague a shit-eating grin. “Anyway! Kaiju spleen!”

“Ugh. My kingdom for my own workspace.” Hermann rolled his eyes—actually rolled his fucking eyes! “Well, go on, then. Best fetch it now so I can have it out of here all the sooner,” he muttered as he returned to his side of the laboratory.

“Your enthusiasm’s real inspiring, Hermann,” Newt said as he stood. A walk down to the shipping bay would be just what he needed to shake off the last of the jitters. “You’re like a walking demotivational poster.”

“Yes, well, one of us has to have some self-control.” Hermann shooed him on before picking his chalk up again. “Oh, and can you make yourself useful and have some tea brought round? The proper kind, if you please. I try not to tax the canteen staff, but they really must understand that I am entirely serious when I insist on not drinking _Lipton_.” He nearly gagged on the name.

“Dude, I think that’s the closest I’ve ever heard you come to actually swearing,” Newt said as he tugged his leather jacket on. “Yeah, I’ll swing by. Try not to break anymore chalk while I’m gone, though, cuz I’m pretty sure they’re slashing our budget for that next. I’m kidding, Hermann.”

“I do understand humor, you know. I only laugh, however, when I am amused. And despite popular opinion, Newton, nothing about you is amusing.”

“Hey, all I’m sayin’ is when it’s you versus two thousand other PPDC staff, chances are you’re wrong.”

“Spoken like a true biologist.”

Newt flipped him the bird as he strolled out of the laboratory.

***

“Kris? Hey, Kris! You got something for me?”

The Shatterdome’s Chief of Shipping turned from her conversation with two technicians and flashed him a smile that lit up her plump face from her round cheeks to her dark eyes. “Well hello, Newt! When you weren’t here five seconds after I sent that B2B, I was worried you might be busy trying to hide Dr. Gottlieb’s body.”

Newt chuckled. “Nah, we only try to kill each other every other Monday.” He clapped his hands. “So, unscheduled delivery, huh?”

Kristine nodded. “Yeah, I was surprised too. But with all the relocating half the PPDC’s been doing since last August, sometimes things still slip through the cracks. And trust me, Newt; shipping paperwork’s always the last thing to get straightened out. Add that to China’s bureaucracy and—”she shrugged helplessly.

“Situation normal: all fucked-up?”

“Or as we like to call it, just another day at the office.”

Newt shook his head sympathetically. “So lay it on me, Kris. What did Santa bring me and what’s his excuse for being a month late?”

“Well, like I said, I’m pretty sure the medium-sized jar is a spleen, but the other two…?” Kristine shrugged as she tilted her head toward the pile that had already been loaded onto a flatbed dolly. “Well, it’s all guts to me.”

Newt let out a low whistle as he strolled toward it.

“So, not just guts, I take it?”

“Oh, fuck no.” He crouched low and ran his hands over the largest jar. “This baby right here? This, my friend, is a nearly complete Kaiju lung—probably from a category three, though, which makes it kind of a relic. But still useful. And this”—he drummed the top of the smallest one—“is a spinal cord scion. Maybe category four, but I’ll know for sure when I get it alone under a microscope. Huh.” He looked up at her. “Weird, though. I mean, I don’t expect to get fresh stuff all the time, but antiques? How long’s the government been sitting on this stuff, and why?”

Kristine opened her mouth to reply, but never managed to do so. A loud, pulse-stopping alarm cut off her first syllable.”

“Alert! Alert!” A woman’s voice boomed through the bay’s loudspeakers. “Kaiju incoming. All personnel to stations. Jaeger crews, prepare for drop.”

The message was repeated in Cantonese, Japanese, Russian, and Korean before it cycled back to English—and lowered enough in volume for Newt and Kristine to resume their conversation.

“I better get up to LOCCENT,” Newt said, already on his way to the door. “But I’ll be back for these later, okay?”

“No problem. I’ll have them brought up as soon as things calm down,” Kris called. “Good luck, Newt.”

“Thanks.” He wasn’t the one who’d need it, but he appreciated the sentiment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shatterdome Is Awesome Guild will make their dramatic return in Chapter 5! Here, have a giant monster battle.

“What’s the situation?” Marshal Pentecost asked as he strode into the Shatterdome’s bustling command center.

“Two Kaiju surfaced from the breach twenty minutes ago,” Tendo said, reading from the iPad in his hand. “Obama Observatory’s still being repaired from Hurricane Iago, so there was a significant delay in the relay.”

“Jesus,” Newt whispered, shaking his head. Of all the shitty timing. Standing next to him, eyes like two hard, brown garnets beneath bangs spiked by sweat, Hermann didn’t even shoot him a glare for the blasphemy. His clammy face was the color of chalk. Before he could even question the action, Newt wrapped his left hand in both of his own and squeezed.

Finally, Hermann squeezed back.

Tendo, meanwhile, kept talking. He gestured at the red circles on the radar-like display around which Newt, Hermann, and every LOCCENT officer not currently engaged with a monitor stood. “Two Kaijus, both category four. Code names Orochi and Tiamat. Tiamat’s headed right for HK, but Orochi’s veering north. If it continues on that trajectory, it’ll make landfall near Chiba and Yokohama.”

Newt bit back another blasphemy. Of course, the Kaiju didn’t always attack in pairs, but they couldn’t have picked a worse time to stray from the usual formula.

Pentecost’s expression was severe. “How soon to drop, Mr. Choi?”

“ETD ten minutes, sir. Crimson’s team is reporting they’re ready to go.”

“Then I want _Crimson Typhoon_ , _Gipsy Danger_ , and _Tacit Ronin_ in the harbor. _Crimson_ and _Ronin_ are to engage while _Gipsy_ holds the perimeter. _Striker Eureka_ and _Cherno Alpha_ are to be deployed in Orochi’s path as soon as possible. Is the Wall still holding around that part of Honshu, Ms. Solomon?”

“Aye, sir. No Kaiju activity near the area since 2020.”

“Good. That might buy us some time. All available air support is to be sent ahead. Let’s try to slow Orochi down or steer it closer toward us.”

Hermann’s hand shifted in his, and Newt tore his attention away from Pentecost as he questioned officers Solomon and Kaoru about liaising with the Japanese military. His colleague’s lips were trembling and forming one word over and over again.

“Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.”

“Hermann?” Newt whispered, slipping an arm around his waist as discretely as he could and inching behind the taller man. The last thing anyone needed right now was panic, least of all Hermann. “Hermann, breathe with me, okay? You’re safe. It’s safe. Breathe with me, my man. Just with me.”

The back of Hermann’s head dipped into a nod. His first breaths were shallow and shaky, but soon his back pushed against Newt’s chest in a more even rhythm. Newt was aware of LOCCENT around him—the marshal giving orders, the twin red circles pulsing on the sonar, the ballet of technicians, Tendo’s fingers flying across an array of touch screens.

“Just with me,” Newt whispered, his lips a breath away from the curve of Hermann’s ear. “You’ve got this, baby.”

“Dr. Gottlieb.”

And just like that, speed and sound came back to the world.

Hermann’s body jerked to attention as Pentecost approached and Newt released his waist. “Y-yes ,sir?”

“How soon can you get me a projection of these two’s path?”

“Five minutes if I can have access to all available data as it comes in.”

“Terminal 2, Doctor. Get me a path.”

“Sir!” Hermann saluted before scurrying toward the open computer.

“Dr. Geiszler?”

“Yeah—Yes, sir?”

“We’re getting our first images in of the targets.”

“Right.” Newt hurried for his own station, chancing a look at Hermann along the way. His face was still pasty, but his fingers were flying across the keyboard, pulling up model after model, running algorithm after algorithm as his bright eyes scanned for patterns, correlations, possibilities.

God, he was beautiful when he fought.

_Shake it off, dude!_

The three screens of Newt’s array closed him off from the rest of LOCCENT, which had the unintended effect of cutting down distraction and sharpening his focus. The centermost monitor fed him realtime images of the Kaiju taken by Chinese and, he now assumed, Japanese aircraft. The rightmost was a direct line to KDAT, K-Sci’s Kaiju database; the left was a holo display that gave him the sonar’s best guess on what the Kaiju looked like underneath the water.

“Gratuitous,” Hermann had scoffed when he designed the triptych. “Why not just toggle on one monitor, Newton?”

“It is my design, dude,” Newt had replied. Of course, the reference was lost on Hermann.

“Okayyy,” Newt drawled as the first images of Tiamat appeared on the center screen. Definitely a cat 4. A slick, slithery green beneath the noon son, serpentine, only with two large pincers and what looked like wing buds. Even though the PPDC assigned names at random, based on a similar system to United States’ National Hurricane Center’s method for naming the disasters it oversaw, he couldn’t help but think Tiamat was a fitting name for this one.

“Marshal.” He looked over his shoulder. “Tiamat’s serpent-like, uh…it’s looking like it’s got some super-thick neck plates, but the pincers are pretty tiny.”

And then the photos on the central screen updated.

“Uh...and it can shoot acid out of its tail. My guess? That’s the deadliest point and the most vulnerable ’cause it’s the hardest to access.”

“Yes, I think so too.” Pentecost had ducked over his shoulder and back to look at the monitor before Newt could turn his head. “Mr. Choi, order Crimson to take down that tail. Get _Ronin_ on the head.”

Newt toggled his screen to the images of the second Kaiju and once again felt a shiver of serendipity in his chest. Orochi wasn’t quite eight-headed, but three was more than enough.

“Marshal. Suggest we call in air support from anyone nearby who is friendly. Orochi might as well be a cat 5.Three heads, wings, and…and lots of tentacles.”

The fact Pentecost wasn’t screaming and rocking back and forth on the floor at this revelation, Newt thought, was why the marshal was in charge here, and Newt was not. “Mr. Choi, any update on Orochi’s heading?”

“Negative, sir. It’s holding steady.”

“Why isn’t it moving?” Newt whispered as the images of Orochi came down the feed. They looked nearly the same as the last batch, indicating the Kaiju had barely shifted position.

“Dr. Gottlieb, I need an update.”

“It’s falling outside all known patterns!” Hermann was flustered. In his mind’s eye, Newt saw him doing his best to fight back his trembling. He wished he could go to him, but he had to analyze Orochi’s huge body. “They’re not supposed to be here.”

“I need your best guess.”

Newt knew Hermann was running his hands through his hair. He was trapped; trapped in a cage of numbers that were falling to pieces around him.

“It’s like it’s waiting for our next move,” Newt said. “As if it wants to see if we know it’s there, and what we’re gonna do about it.”

He could almost hear the marshal thinking.

“Mr. Choi, _Cherno_ and _Striker_ are to hold position until further notice. It moves, they move.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dr. Geiszler, get me those images on screen.”

“You got it, sir.” A few keystrokes brought the feed up on a larger terminal next to Tendo. Pentecost stepped closer, a hand on his chin as he watched Orochi standing silently, foamy wavelets lapping against its plated chest.

Newt swiveled his chair to watch as well, sucking on his lower lip. A hypothesis he didn’t like at all was creeping through his mind; despite the room’s tension and body heat, he felt as if a cold tendril were sliding through him.

A high-pitched whine tore him away from his thoughts.

“Tiamat engaged,” Tendo said.

Someone—Newt forgot who, exactly—had once described time in LOCCENT during a battle as minutes of terror that soon turned into hours of tedium. And sure enough, an hour into _Crimson_ and _Ronin_ ’s fight with Tiamat, and Newt was really wishing for a stress ball to squeeze or some coffee—even though that would probably just make him antsier. Looking over at Hermann wasn’t helping, either—he was pounding on the keyboard, looking as though he’d throw up if he slowed down even for a second. Newt had to look away to resist the urge to get out of his chair and—

Feeling the back of his neck tingle, he turned his attention to Orochi again. Fifty-five minutes into the attack and it hadn’t moved. That tendril of an idea just kept unfurling.

_It’s watching us. But why? I mean, it makes no sense that these are just wild animals that just want to smash all the things. I’ve never believed that, even if I can’t prove it. But this is the first time one’s ever just sat there before. Is it waiting? Planting a weapon? Looking for something?_

“Sir.” The nervousness in Tendo’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “ _Tacit Ronin_ is down. Critical damage to right arm, left leg, and propulsion systems. Core is stable, but life support is failing.”

“Order the pilots to evacuate immediately.”

Tendo toggled a switch and frowned. “No response, sir. Duc, Kaori. Do you copy? Evacuate your Jaeger. Repeat. Evacuate your Jaeger. Do you copy?”

Newt’s gaze went to the last place he wanted it to go—Tendo’s station, which contained readings on Tacit Ronin only a LOCCENT officer could decipher.

“C’mon, guys,” Newt whispered. “Pick up the phone.”

Tendo waited, then seemed to curl in on himself just a bit. “No life signs, sir.”

Newt’s gaze shot to Hermann.

Hermann was wincing as if someone had punched him in the stomach. His right hand trembled more than usual as he crossed himself. To hell with Orochi standing there like an asshole—Newt wanted to cross the room, wrap his hand around Hermann’s, pull the other man to him, hold him, tell him that none of this—absolutely none of it—was his fault. But it wasn’t the time or place. _Later_ , he told himself. _Later._

“Direct hit to the chest cavity, marshal,” Solomon said. “Tiamat is down!”

Applause broke out across the command center as Newt moved his gaze back to Orochi. As if sighting him themselves, the Kaiju’s three heads lifted slowly and two of its mouths opened.

“What th—okay, now it’s moving,” Newt said. Only the Kaiju wasn’t changing its position; it was lowering itself back into the water. The faster to get to Japan? He glanced over at his radar. “Uh, Marshal? You’re not gonna believe this, but I think Orochi’s heading off.”

Sure enough, the radar confirmed that the second Kaiju was coming about.

“Oh my God,” Newt whispered. “It’s not—”

“It’s leading us on a chase,” Pentecost practically completed his thought. “Dr. Gottlieb? Any ideas where it might be going?”

His tone was firm yet calm, no different than it had been throughout the attack, yet Hermann looked up at the marshal as if he had screamed at him.

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered, looking as if he were about to cry. “I don’t know.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Hermann?” Newt’s knuckles were getting sore from knocking at the locked laboratory door, but he wasn’t about to stop. “Hermann, c’mon! Let me in!”

Silence.

Newt whacked the side of his palm against the steel. “I know you’re there, man! I can hear you chalking!”

Not that he could, or that Hermann would believe him. But Newt had to try.

In the end, Orochi had lead Cherno Alpha and Striker Eureka on a three-hour chase through the Nampo Islands, resulting in heavy damage both to the coasts and to Striker’s shoulder. As soon as a plasma shot from Cherno finally killed it, Hermann had excused himself. Newt had known well enough not to go after him. But when two hours had passed and Hermann hadn’t emerged from the laboratory, Newt had decided enough was enough.

“Man, come on! Don’t make me get someone up here to open the lock—because I will!”

“Newt?”

He turned at the sound of Tendo’s voice to find the other man looking pale and exhausted—and holding a lit cigarette.

“Oh, hey Tendo. Hermann’s changed the code for the lock. Again. You know how to do an override?”

Tendo cocked his head, frowning. “Well, yeah, but I don’t see why he’d lock himself out.”

Newt was usually exhausted after a battle, not to mention anxious and even more jittery than usual, so he was pretty sure he’d been unclear. “No, sorry,” he tried again. “I mean, Hermann’s in there and he’s locked _me_ out.” He sidled closer to Tendo and lowered his voice. “He was…he kind of didn’t take what happened to Ronin real well.”

“I’d figured,” Tendo said. “He’s been talking to Fr. Patel for the last two hours about the funeral. Kaori and Duc a—were part of our… well, I guess you’d call this a parish, and pretty much half of our Latin Mass Society,” he explained when Newt just stared at him. “And there’s no next of kin that’ll fly all the way out here to help.”

Newt blinked and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “So he’s not…?”

Tendo shook his head. As if remembering the cigarette in his hand, he raised it to his lips and dragged deeply on the stub before flicking it discretely to the floor and rubbing it out with his heel.

Newt turned his gaze to the door and punched his access code into the pad. When it slid open, he stared at an empty lab.

“Well. Huh,” he said sheepishly before flipping on the lights.

The lab looked just as they had left it. On Newt’s side, Kaiju guts floated like arcane fish in the amber of their tanks while his screensaver—super deformed Kaiju chased by equally chibified Jaeger—played for an audience of none.

He turned his gaze to the room’s left side. Hermann’s space was immaculate as always, save for an abandoned mug of tea on a desk that contained nothing else but a lamp and an office organizer. Something, probably Hermann’s hurry to get to LOCCENT, had knocked the chain of the tea ball into the amaretto-colored liquid.

And then he noticed the chalkboard.

“Shit,” he breathed. “This is bad. Really bad.”

Tendo whistled low as he came up beside him. “I’ll say.”

The board, usually as full with equations as Newt’s arms were with tattoos, was empty save for great fans of chalk dust. Behind them, a few numbers and something resembling a Sigma lingered like ghosts.

“He goes to town on that thing sometimes, sure, when he’s rethinking something or when he sees one of the little Easter eggs I’ve left him, but…not like this. Usually, you never know it’s been erased. It practically looks new now.” Newt couldn’t think of what to do with his hands, so he worked them into the pockets of his tight jeans. “I don’t know how he does it.”

Tendo put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed as he offered Newt his pack of cigarettes.

Newt gave him a tired half-smile but shook his head. “Thought you were quitting.”

“I am. Fifth time’s the charm.” Tendo tapped another one out and fished in his pocket for a lighter. “Attacks are my cheat days.” He slipped the cigarette between his lips and clicked the flint until he got a light.

“He’s so gonna kill you for smoking in here,” Newt chuckled. He looked at the blackboard again and sighed. “They really shouldn’t have fired his team. I mean, I know. We’re both pretty much living on savings now as it is so they can pay custodial and budget for our new equipment, but…” He shook his head and kicked a toe against the floor.

“Everyone shared the weight,” Tendo concluded after blowing out a stream of smoke. “The numbers weren’t all up to him.”

Newt ran a hand through his hair again. “He thinks—it’s like he thinks he’s Jesus half the time. That he’s got to personally save the world from this”—He waved his hand at the organs drifting silently in the ammonia— “and if he doesn’t, he deserves to be crucified. Fuck. He needs to lay off all that Catholic crap. Sorry, no offense.”

Tendo held up his hands and nodded before replacing his cigarette. “You tell him that?”

“It’s Hermann, Tendo. He listens to exactly three people: Fr. Patel, Stacker, and himself. Besides, we don’t really talk about…” He searched for the word, but every option made his heart beat too fast. “Stuff,” he said at last.

Tendo’s hand returned to his shoulder for another squeeze. “Listen, I’m pretty sure Jin wants to pound the court with his brothers after this, but Sasha’s already told me she and Aleksis want us over in their quarters. I’m pretty sure vodka’s going to be involved. No word yet if Mako’s coming by, but my guess is she wants to be near her dad now, or Raleigh, or both. You wanna join us, or…”

Newt shook his head. “Even if I’m there in the room when he gets in, he won’t talk to me about it. It’ll just be us staring at each other or yelling, and I…kinda don’t want to do either right now?” He sighed. “Sure. Vodka’s good. Let me just finish up what I was running here and I’ll be there, yeah?”

Tendo nodded and moved to the door. Beneath the lintel, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Newt?”

“Huh?”

Tendo hesitated, then shook his head. “Never mind. Not important.”

Newt had a suspicion it was exactly the opposite. “Okay, man. See you up there.”

Tendo nodded again and strode out, leaving behind a lingering fougere of nicotine smoke and cinnamon gum.

By the time Newt was ready to switch off the light, Hermann hadn’t returned.

***

Sasha and Aleksis were usually pretty happy drunks—after they’d consumed about a tank each of vodka, seeing as their tolerance was only matched by Newt’s for Pixie Stix. But tonight, they seemed, well, sober was ironically the best word he could think of. They always told themselves they’d try to keep things light, try to forget about Kaiju and Jaegers and oceans and the whole shitty mess for a while, but it never worked out that way. Kaori and Duc hadn’t been close friends—not like Shatterdome Is Awesome Guild-close, at least—but they were still pilots. Still comrades-in-arms. And Newt knew for a fact that Tendo was hiding his emotions behind his glass, a smile, and a fistful of cigarettes. More than anyone on this base, LOCCENT’s officers and the Jaeger pilots were like family. The fact Duc and Kaori had been members of the Shatterdome’s parish was even worse. Seeing Tendo smile as he tried to engage Aleksis in a “friendly debate” about Smirnoff nearly broke his heart. Finally, it all became too much and he said he had to go. He didn’t need a nice excuse or face-saving platitudes; he knew them, they knew him, and they all knew what each other could and couldn’t give.

And he was just so tired of this shit. So, so tired.

As Newt unlocked the door to their shared quarters, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to find Hermann there or not. On the one hand, his colleague was clearly distraught. On the other, he was _clearly distraught_, which meant lots of glaring and snapping and threats to write him up for breathing or existing or throwing his Harbinger plushie at him and oh, fuck he was really, really wasted, wasn’t he, and that was always the worst possible time like, ever, to deal with Hermann except for attack days, which this also was, and—

From the sound of all that tapping inside the room, they either had really, really big cockroaches, or someone was trying to break a laptop keyboard.

Newt raised his head, which had somehow lolled to the side (how had that happened? Oh yeah. Vodka.). Well, great. 

“Shit,” he grumbled. “Woulda taken the cockroaches. Way cuter.” 

Hermann either didn’t hear him or just ignored him. The room felt weird and his shoulders hurt, so Newt wandered to his bed and sat down with a groan. “Wow. That’s…soft,” he said, for reasons he couldn’t explain but which totally made sense.

Hermann’s eyebrows were currently trying to crawl up into his stringy bangs. The tiny computer balanced on his lap quivered beneath the blows he was dealing it.

“Dude, if you hit that any harder you’re gonna break something.”

Hermann growled.

Newt removed his glasses, rubbed the lenses against his shirt, replaced them on his nose. Hermann was still hitting it, only at least he’d turned his head to look at him now.

“Please keep gandering at me, Newton. At any moment, I’m liable to do something else to entertain you.”

“Okay,” Newt agreed. “Like being nice or something? Because that’d be funny. Weird. But funny. Like watching little kids swear while wearing business suits or something.”

Hermann removed his glasses with a shaking hand and stared across the room at him. He was a pretty pale person—not ever leaving your lab unless ordered to do so did that to you—but now his skin looked like boiled oysters—or chalk; yeah, chalk if someone poured water all over it and stuck matted hair to it and made its eyes all puffy and bloodshot.

Bloodshot…

“Hermann?” Newt asked carefully. “Have you been—”

“Are you _drunk_, Newton?”

“Um. A little? Seriously, wha—”

“You are drunk,” Hermann repeated, slapping his laptop closed and tossing it aside on the bed. “Two of our colleagues have died in a truly horrific way while protecting humanity, and you honor their deaths by getting _drunk_?”

“Dude, me and most the Shatterdome,” Newt said, raising his hands. “That’s what people do when they’re sad, Hermann. Normal human behavior. You should learn something about it.”

“I should lear—” It should have been biologically impossible at that point, but Hermann’s face went whiter still. The two red blotches spreading across his cheeks made him look as if he were made from wax and badly painted into looking like a human—like what would happen if Satan ran Madame Tussaud’s.

It was funny—that image—and he would have laughed, except Hermann wasn’t a wax figure, really. He was a person, and he looked as if he were about to break into pieces.

“I see,” he said in a truly wintry tone. “It isn’t enough that I must plan a funeral for two devoted, kind, decent Catholics with no next of kin to care for them, now I must deal with your drunkenness and irresponsibility!”

The fuck? “Hermann, again: half the base is drunk off their asses tonight. We’re trying to cope, not being irresponsible. Chill out!”

“No!” Hermann struggled to turn on the mattress, flailed for the cane propped against his headboard, and used it to lever himself to his feet. His left leg cantered to the side as he stormed across the room, nearly sending him sprawling; he slammed his cane down, righted himself, and continued on, the red spots on his cheeks now a full, blotchy suffusion.

Newt stood up before Hermann could ram into the bed, and immediately thought better of it as the room listed a little to the left. But then his colleague was inches away from his face, and sitting down wasn’t an option.

“Now you listen, Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann snapped. “I will _not_ ‘chill out.’ I will not ‘relax’ or ‘take it easy’ or ‘go with the flow,’ or any other popular prescription for upset that you and your friends cling to like a religion.”

All right. That was weird. “Okay…?” Newt said. “It’s just an expression; if you want to be upset, well, it’s stupid, but sure, whatever, be my g—”

“Of course I’m upset! You all despise me!”

Newt blinked. He was drunk, sure, but he wasn’t so drunk he was hearing things, right? “Huh?”

“Oh, I know what you all say. Dr. Gottlieb is a hack, a failure, a rubbish mathematician. His junk equations will get us all killed. He should be sacked for his own good! Goodness knows he makes us all uncomfortable, anyway!”

“What?!” Newt asked, raising his hands. “Jesus, Hermann! I’m not— No one— _literally_ , no one—is calling you a failure or your calculations junk! What the hell are you tal—”

And then it all made sense.

God, he was a fucking idiot.

“Your Dad just emailed you, didn’t he?”

He regretted saying it instantly. Hermann blinked one, twice, as his dark eyes filled with a lacquer of tears. He blinked again, and they caught in his long lashes, spilled down his gaunt cheeks.

“Hermann?”

His colleague raised a hand to his mouth and doubled over, dropping his cane. For a moment, Newt thought he was going to vomit all over the floor. He heard it before he could move—great, throaty whuffs of air that quickly ratcheted into a high, panting keen like the cry of a bird.

Hermann was sobbing.

And it was the worst sound Newt had ever heard. Even worse than a Kaiju roar.

He wasn’t sure how he got up from the bed and managed to catch Hermann as he staggered, but he did.

“Oh, Hermann,” he said. “Oh, baby.”

Hermann just wept.

No matter how much he tried to pump up at the gym, even with Aleksis coaching him and making him all sorts of weird protein shakes, Newt wasn’t all that strong, and being drunk didn’t help, either. Somehow, though, he managed to guide Hermann to his bed, it being the closer, and help him ease down onto the edge.

“What happened?” he asked as he joined him, sliding his arm around Hermann’s shoulders. They trembled as Hermann looked at his knees.

“I—he—I don’t. I can’t. Newton, I—please don’t ask me to repeat—”

“Sorry, sorry.” Newt brought his other arm around Hermann. “Sure. You don’t have to. I get it.”

A cold little wand stirred in his stomach. In the ten years they had lived together, Newt had seen Hermann cry on exactly three occasions: the day his niece Ester and his nephew Israel were born, once after a particularly difficult physical therapy session, and tonight. And he’d never seen him sob like this.

“You don’t have to,” he repeated and just held on, running his hand through that impossibly soft hair. When Hermann omly wept harder, Newt pulled him close and rocked him, back and forth, slow and gentle, the way Hermann did with him when he was coming down from a bad panic attack. In response, Hermann tucked his head against his shoulder and burrowed into his neck. Ignoring the heat that splashed across his face and the prickle in his nipples, Newt continued to rock him, continued to pet, continued to breathe slowly and deeply against Hermann’s body until Hermann’s breath slowed and his sobs became softer, then faded into shallow breaths.

“What do you need right now?” he asked then.

Hermann took a long, shuddering breath. “You.”

Newt’s body stiffened as if he had slapped him. He immediately forced himself to relax.

“Y-eah, well, I’m here all night,” he said, trying for a kindly laugh and figuring he did okay with one. “Anything else?”

“Some water would be nice. Or, perhaps some tea. No—” Hermann corrected as Newt shifted to get out of bed. “No. Just water. I don’t want you to go to the commissary.”

“Okay.” Newt moved his hands back into his hair, suddenly feeling a little soberer. “We can use the hot plate, though. I mean, you have, like, lots of tea tucked in that caddy, right?”

“Yes.” Hermann scrubbed his hand across his face.

“Here. Hold that thought.” Newt gently extricated himself from his colleague and hurried over to the small plastic organizer Hermann kept next to his closet. He knelt and raised the lid and immediately reached for the tin of chamomile and vanilla rooibos. “Chamomile blend okay?” he asked anyway.

“Yes.”

Newt filled the kettle up in the bathroom sink and put it on the hot plate before measuring out a tablespoon of tea into one of the many tea balls Hermann kept in the caddy. As the kettle popped and the water hissed, he got out a mug and a packet of tissues, which he gave to Hermann. By the time his colleague had finished wiping his eyes and blowing his nose, the tisane was ready to be mixed with a dash of honey and brought to the bed.

“Listen, Hermann,” he said after Hermann had taken a few calming sips. “What you said earlier…you know that isn’t true, right?”

Hermann raised the mug to his lips again—probably to avoid answering.

“Like, sure. You’re irritating as fuck and I swear to God, you need to get a hobby that isn’t yelling at me, like model boats or drag racing or something, but your calculations—”

“Were wrong, Newton.” Hermann’s hand trembled and a few drops of tea sloshed over the sides.

Newt steadied them in his own. “Were awesome and probably helped save millions of people’s lives,” he corrected. “But the thing about the universe is it’s always changing. Maybe something in the Kaiju’s universe changed too.”

“Numbers don’t lie, Newton,” Hermann repeated as if someone had pulled a string or wound a key in his back. “They are—”

“I know, I know. God. Divinity. Whatever. But the Kaiju aren’t just numbers, right? They’re biological—they’ve got brains. Which means they’ve got psychology, even if it’s more like the psychology of—of a pack of wolves rather than human beings. Maybe what happened today isn’t about your math and is about them trying something new to shake us up. I mean—look, no Kaiju fanboying here, either, promise—you don’t really believe they’re just dumb animals, right?”

“I don’t know. That is not my area of expertise.”

“Well, it’s mine. And I think they’re messing with us. Which is scary, sure—actually, really scary—but means that math isn’t the issue here. War is. And look, even if your calculations were wrong, that doesn’t mean you can’t refine them. Hell, every scientist is wrong sometimes, every single one.”

“But not when the human race depends upon them,” Hermann said bleakly.

“Stop that,” Newt said gently. “You stop that right now. This is not Hermann Gottlieb, Superstar versus the Kaiju—it’s humanity versus the Kaiju. And that’s why no one here thinks that crap about you; because they know you’re amazing, and you’ve got their backs. So they’ve got yours. Also, fuck your father.”

“Newton!”

“I know, I know.” Newt raised his hands. “Honor thy father and thy mother. But tell me, didn’t Jesus also say, um, something about honoring kids too?”

Oddly, this brought a smile to Hermann’s lips. “Please never attempt to quote scripture again. You always sound a fool when you try.”

“Okay. But no more attempts to tear yourself apart, either. Fair enough?”

“I suppose.” Hermann didn’t look convinced, but Newt decided that was enough for now.

“Anything else you need?” he asked when Hermann lowered the mug back to the nightstand again.

“Yes. If it wouldn’t be much trouble…would you massage me?”

“Leg? Foot?”

“Yes, both, please. I don’t know what has happened, but I’ve been sore and swollen all day. This contemptible rain.”

“Sure,” Newt said as he moved Hermann’s left foot into his lap. “You don’t want anything for it?”

“No. It’s only a—oh, but I do hate that scale,” he groused as he picked the mug up again. “It’s the pins- and-needles feeling—a three, a four? How does one assign that a number?”

“Dunno. You’re the mathematician, ba—“ Newt coughed. “Bro.”

This earned him an eyeroll. “In any case, I really ought to make an appointment with medical, but there never seems to be an opportune—oh.”

“Too much pressure?” Newt asked as he worked his thumb around the knot in Hermann’s ankle, careful to avoid pushing on the swelling.

“No. But no deeper. Just a light touch, please. I’ve found when you press where you are, the tingling abates some.”

“Yep. I remember.”

“Thank you.”

Hermann drank his tea and Newt continued in silence. It wasn’t the time for it, he knew, but he couldn’t help but admire the curve of Hermann’s arch, the curve of his instep, the shape of each scarred toe. Two were crooked, thanks to inadequate medical care in the chaos that followed Trespasser’s attack, and they were Newt’s favorites. It felt wrong to think this—fetishizing, trivializing—but he couldn’t help it; Hermann’s scars were beautiful because they made him Hermann. And everything about Hermann was—

“Hey,” he said, looking up, “you want me to work your ankle, or—”

But Hermann had fallen asleep. He barely even stirred as Newt turned him onto his right side and slipped a pillow between his thighs. Hermann seemed to know instinctively what to do with his left leg, which he bent at a right angle, so Newt didn’t wake him to ask.

After covering Hermann with his blanket, Newt slipped into his favorite pair of Kaiju pajama bottoms and settled into Hermann’s bed. The smell of Hermann was overpowering—chalk dust, green tea, ginseng—and Newt buried his nose in one of Hermann’s many pillows and breathed deeply.

Newt had a lot of fantasies about Hermann Gottlieb. Catalogs of them, organized by intensity, date, and subject matter. Sweet fantasies. Dirty fantasies. Intense fantasies. Kinky fantasies involving a Hermann with tentacles for hands or wearing nothing but lacy white thigh-highs, a white Kaiju-leather collar, and handcuffs. But after this shit of a day, Newt only wanted one fantasy—his favorite one.

He ran his thumb over his balls and called it up.

Hermann in their lab space at the Hong Kong Shatterdome. Always in whatever Shatterdome they put them in—when they’d been in Lima together, it was Lima’s; San Francisco’s in San Francisco. So now it was Hong Kong’s. Not doing anything unusual, just chalking up his board, same as always. He had on a pair of dove-gray trousers and the dark-blue sweater vest that Newt particularly liked. No jacket; that was on the back of his chair, where he sometimes placed it when he worked up an actual sweat doing math.

Newt always looked up when he dropped the eraser, always watched as he bent over to pick it up and showed him the outlines of that slightly round rear. And he always gasped when Newt snatched up the eraser and put it back on the blackboard shelf.

“You shouldn’t do that when I’m around,” he always growled as Hermann stared at him. “Bending over like that. Showing me that sexy ass. It gives me all sorts of ideas.”

“Indeed?” And Hermann’s eyes were always filled with mischief as he pressed himself against Newt’s body. His cock was always just as hard as Newt’s, and he always gasped in shock when Newt spun him around and pinned him against the blackboard.

Newt would always growl as he grabbed two fistfuls of Hermann’s hips and ground against him. “This is mine,” he would always say. “Mine. You want me, Hermann?”

And Hermann would—

Newt’s growing boner, however, deflated when he noticed the laptop sitting right across from his face, its blue lights pulsing as if it were a living, breathing thing. Newt tried to ignore it, tried to lose himself in the smell of the sheets, their softness against his bare chest. It wasn’t his business. It really shouldn’t be. Except it totally was, because K-Science was about both of them, and what hurt Hermann hurt him.

He sat up and pulled the computer onto his thighs, flipping it open and flooding the sheets with its blue-white light.

Lars Gottlieb’s email was still up, along with the few sentences Hermann had typed in reply. Ignoring them, Newt instead scrolled through what LGottlieb@SourceEngineering.org had to say. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it was a horrible invasion of privacy; the knot in his stomach told him so. But once he started, he couldn’t stop. Lars wrote eloquently, in the language of a man born to a world of books that stimulated an already promising intellect that the finest universities in the UK had then sculpted and brought to heel. But pretty words didn’t disguise the fact that he was still a vicious fuck. Newt scrolled through page after page of abuse about Hermann’s profession, his loyalties to the PPDC, his hygiene, his mathematics, his body, his ungratefulness as a son, and, surprisingly, his “association” with Newt himself. Well, Newt thought with a smirk, getting the Lars Gottlieb stamp of unapproval was probably the best honor he’d ever received.

And then something in him snapped. Clenching his left hand into a fist, he reread the paragraph.

_You mother and I have discussed the matter, and we have decided that you are no longer welcome in our household until you realize how much blood you have on your hands from your stubborn refusal to support the Wall of Life. Quite frankly, Hermann, I often wonder if you did not incur significant brain trauma during the first Kaiju attack. Ever since then, you have been belligerent, cold, contrary, and, if I may be so bold, of questionable sanity. Your mother and I did not raise you to behave this way, Hermann, and I am quite honestly considering demanding that you repay at least some of the money we put into your education and your therapy, as you have squandered the opportunities the first accorded you and clearly paid no heed to the advice given to you during the second._

That did it.

He highlighted Hermann’s sentences and deleted them, then began typing.

_Dear shithead,_

Frowning, Newt poked the Backspace key.

_Dear asshole,_

No. Probably also a bad idea. He prodded it again.

_Dear doucherocket who someone should beat in the face and feed to the next Kaiju_

Yeah, no. That was probably going too far. This was still Hermann’s father, after all. Even if he didn’t deserve to be.

Finally, he settled on _Mr. Gottlieb_. Like hell he was honoring this jackhole with “doctor.”

_This is Dr. Newton Geiszler. You remember, the PPDC K Sceintist you called “that tattooed cartoon character” and “that fantasy biologist’ and ‘the homosexual cokehead”. Which was really nice by the way. Love ya too. Anyway as you know today we lost two jaeger pilots defending China from the Kaiju, two pilots who Hermann cared about, and who have done way more to save the world then you and your shitty wall (also, here are some helpful links to something called the Maginot Line_

Newt paused in his typing and called up Googlepedia. He inserted the first twenty-seven links about the defensive system that he found, including one about a short-lived Icelandic alt rock band from 2019. But whatever. Keep the historically illiterate dipshit guessing.

 _Now pay attention man because I am absolutely serious here. Sure your son gets on my nerves sometimes okay a lot and sure I sometimes spike his tea with pixie Stix just to see how hel’l react but in ten years of working together and yes living with him I have never onec called him a hack or useless or a disappointment or any of the other 6000 shitty things you told him tonight. Because here’s the thing; Hermann is the most dedicated, hard working and GoOD person I know, and I work with two thousand and five something dedicated, hard-working, and Good people._

Two thousand and five was right, right? Anyway.

_Sure I don’t always agree with him but that’s the thing; scientists sometimes disagree and also? I’m not an engineer or a mathematician. He is. I don’t tell him how to do his job and even when he tells me I watch too much Godzilla and read too much manga, he doesn’t tell me how to do mine. And what are you, like some kind of banker or something? You definitely don’t have the right to tell him how to do his job. And you sure as hell don’t have the right to make him cry—which is probably youre idea of fun huh?_

He was feeling hot. He wiped at his forehead.

_Also: heres another thing. Hermann’s brilliant. Basically if Einstein and Bohr and Ada Lovelace and Alan Turing and Gauss all put their DNa in a centrafuge we’d get Hermann. Hell, I have six PhDs and I cant keep up with him sometimes. I can’’t. And you know what? He’d have probably twice what I have by now if he hadnt spent most of his post graduate years on an operating table where, let me remind you you totally treated him like shit and acted like him getting hurt was both his falt and the biggest inconvenence ever . So when he says your dinky little wall is made out of cardboard and matchsticks? The only thing you should say is “sorry, yu’re right now how can I help YOU save the world?_

_Don’t contact him again unless it’s to get down on your knees and apologize._

He considered for a moment, then added _Douchebag_ for emphasis.

_Sincerely,_

_Dr. Newton Geiszler_

_PS Go ahead and call my superiors. I triple dog dear you. Dick ._

He looked it over, making sure everything was spelled right, because even when he was sober he was pretty bad at spelling. But when everything looked fine, he flipped the screen the bird with both hands and hit Send.

Hermann would, of course, murder him when he found out what he’d done with his email account. But somebody had to do something about this. Newt closed the laptop and set it gently on Hermann’s desk, looking across the room as he did. Hermann still looked pale and tired, but the waxiness was definitely gone. He had a meeting tomorrow at 0930 (Newt was pretty sure that’s when it was, at least; post-attack briefings were usually at that time), but they’d just have to do it without him. There was no way in hell Newt was going to let Hermann self-flagellate again over being unable to make a prediction.

He switched off Hermann’s alarm clock, then crossed the room and turned off the Kaiju lamp on his desk. As he did, he let himself look down at the man sleeping in his Power Rangers sheets.

Gorgeous. Everything about him was fucking perfect. The tears drying in his eyelashes made them look even longer, more demure. The firm line his mouth usually settled into had relaxed, which made his face look far less strained. Newt wondered if that was what he’d looked like before—before the PPDC, before the Jaeger program, before Trespasser.

They talked, of course they did. About science. Art. Architecture. B movies. How they pissed each other off every five minutes. Everything and anything but the Gottlieb family, or Hermann Gottlieb before he became _Dr._ Hermann Gottlieb. Newt had always known the reason—or guessed it from the communication between them that he caught glimpses of from time to time. But now…

“If he ever hurts you again,” Newt whispered, “so help me God, Hermann…”

Hermann stirred in his sleep but didn’t open his eyes. Sighing, Newt leaned in and pressed the lightest of kisses to his hair.

 _So help me God_ , he thought as he returned to bed, _I really will beat his face in and feed him to a Kaiju._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that I wanted to address somewhere in this chapter. Yes, I'm aware of the fact that Travis Beacham, on his tumblr, recently mentioned that Hermann is of Jewish heritage, but non-practicing. I absolutely love this information! However, I began this fic about ten days before he made that particular post, and while a few people in PR's tumblr fandom imagined Hermann as Jewish, I was not among them. I promise this is not an attempt to Christian-wash Hermann--just me working with the canon I had at the time, and unfortunately, Hermann's Catholicism has now become pretty integral to this story and to others I have drafted about him.
> 
> So. I thought about this carefully and came to the following conclusion: I had always planned on Hermann being a Catholic convert, and as one can be any religion before joining the Catholic Church, this does not erase his Jewish heritage (which I think he is quite proud of, and which will be mentioned in another story I'm writing about him, and probably in this one; however, his mother's faith was just ultimately not the one that he was drawn to). In this 'verse, his mother is similarly non-practicing, but his sister and younger brother do practice. His father is nominally Lutheran but mostly nonpracticing, and his elder brother is an atheist.


	6. Chapter 6

(Sunday morning.)

“…Go ahead and call my superiors. I triple-dog dear you. Dick,” Pentecost finished. He looked at Newt over the top of his laptop.

“I can explain?” Newt offered weakly.

“Oh, I would really like that,” Pentecost said as he leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his hands.

“Well, you see, sir, Hermann’s father had no right to talk to him like that, and since Hermann wasn’t having exactly the best day, I decided he needed a little help in letting him know what healthy boundaries are.”

“I surmised that, Newt. I asked because I wanted to know if you meant ‘triple-dog dear’, which is something I’ve never heard of, or ‘triple-dog dare’, which I have.”

Was he serious? “Uh. ‘Dare,’ sir. I was…well, kind of wasted when I was typing that up. Hence the typos.”

But not the swearing. No, he’d probably do that even more sober. The dickweed deserved it.

“I see.” Pentacost lowered his hands to the desk. “Unfortunately, I have to put an official reprimand in your file. With the UN breathing down my neck and looking to pull funding a few months earlier than promised for any reason at all, I can’t be seen as lacking in discipline.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I also have to ask you to give the elder Dr. Gottlieb an official apology.”

Newt jumped to his feet. “Woah! Sorry, sir, but hell no.”

Pentecost raised an eyebrow.

“Reprimand me all you want, hell, put me on, like, Cherno-scrubbing detail for the rest of my life, but Hermann’s dad is an emotionally abusive jackass, and the only thing I should be apologizing for is not telling him to leave Hermann alone sooner.”

“I said I had to ask you, Newt. Not that you had to comply.”

“Huh?”

“I could order you to type one out, but all three of us know you wouldn’t mean it. And while knowing I’d forced you to do something distasteful would satisfy Lars Gottlieb, I don’t particularly care about his satisfaction. A note of your disobedience will also be entered, as well as a reprimand for it.”

Newt sighed and rubbed his face, not caring that he was smearing his glasses after just cleaning them like five minutes ago. “Okay, sir. I understand that too. So, what’s my punishment?”

Pentecost opened a drawer on his desk, reached inside, and then slid an envelope across the desk. When he gestured to it, Newt reached for it and unsealed it.

“Sir,” he said as he stared inside, “this is a reservation for two at…Wisteria?”

Pentecost nodded. “The finest dim sum on our side of Hong Kong.”

“I…don’t understand?”

“It’s just outside the bone slum near the waterfront; the ferry will take you almost to the front door. It’s also completely accessible. Or doesn’t Dr. Gottlieb like dim sum anymore?”

“No, uh…it’s his favorite. Especially when there are lots of vegetarian…uh…” Newt prodded the engraved piece of paper with a thumb.

“Then unless you both have other plans for this Saturday night, I’m not sure what the problem is.”

“Oh, there’s no problem, sir! It’s just that…well, as punishments go, this is pretty awesome. Actually, there is a problem, though. Hermann…and me too, really. We can’t spend PPDC money doing this.”

“Thankfully, you don’t have to. Dr. Daniel Tang, Wisteria’s owner, is something of a Geiszler-Gottlieb groupie.”

Newt’s mouth froze around a ball of an exclamation. “We have groupies?”

“When they’re former Peking University biochemists turned five-star restaurant owners, you do. Dr. Tang has been anxious to meet you and Dr. Gottlieb ever since the BBC did that interview with you both in 2018.”

 _God, I looked like such a dork then._ “Sir, the thing is…can we really afford to take the time off?”

“Quite frankly, Newt, after you’ve both clocked almost more fifteen hour days since Christmas than I have, we can’t afford you not to. You’re the PPDC’s last remaining scientists, and you’re already sacrificing your salaries, your health, and, in Hermann’s case, accommodations we should be able to provide in order to take care of us. Let us take care of you for once. And if Dr. Gottlieb objects, tell him this is an order.”

“Okay,” Newt said slowly. “But Hermann may not want to go with me after—”

A trace of a smile pulled at Pentecost’s lips. “That’s the punishment. You’ve got five days to convince him he should enjoy this evening with you instead of someone else. And on a personal note, Newt? You really owe Dr. Gottlieb an apology. A huge one.”

Newt rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s that angry, huh?”

“To be honest, Newt? I’ve never seen him so furious.”

Newt blew out a deep, anxious breath and tried to tell his pulse to stop beating double time in his wrists. “That bad, huh?”

“As humans go, Lars Gottlieb is a pretty poor specimen, and not just because he’s had a hand in starting the countdown to the PPDC’s end. If he were my father, cutting off contact would have been the least of the things I’d have done in Dr. Gottlieb’s place. Only, I’m not in his place, and neither are you.”

Newt stared down at his hands and fiddled with his silver skull pinkie ring, running his fingers over its teeth. “You don’t need to tell me that, sir. I fucked up. I know it. I just—”

_I can’t stand it when he’s hurting._

Pentecost rose and walked around his desk. “I know, Newt,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But I’m not the one who needs to hear that.”

***

Newt paced outside the lab door for five minutes thinking of what he would say to the man inside. In the end, he didn’t manage to think of anything before it opened and Hermann looked out. At the sight of Newt, his dark eyes thinned; Newt flinched as he saw the muscles in his jaw tighten.

“You would be surprised, Dr. Geiszler, at how thin these walls can actually be, particularly when one is stomping around on metal flooring in those.” He flicked his wrist disdainfully at Newt’s riveted, black platform boots.

Newt flinched again. Shit. Hermann only called him “Dr. Geiszler” when he was feeling less moderately pissed off at everything in general and more violently angry at him. It usually happened about three times a year, and usually Newt just dismissed it as Hermann being Hermann and waited for him to calm down. Now, however, the huge tendril of anxiety unfurling in his stomach felt like a giant beanstalk.

“Are you even listening to me?” Hermann snapped.

“Um, y-yeah, I—”

Hermann grabbed his arm and tugged him into the lab with insistence that made up for his lack of force. As the door clicked shut behind them, he shot his colleague a glare that Newt was reasonably certain could close the Breach and kill all the Kaiju inside it, if only they could figure out how to harness its intensity.

“Um, Hermann, I—”

Hermann jabbed a finger into his chest. “No,” he said. “You do not whine. You do not justify. You do not _speak_ to me unless you are asked. Am I understood?”

Newt opened his mouth, thought better of it, and nodded.

Hermann stepped in closer, his cheeks scarlet with anger. He still looked fatigued, Newt thought, but at least he looked better than he had yesterday. “In the ten years we have worked together, Dr. Geiszler, I have put up with antic after antic from you, and done so with far more patience than you deserve. But not now, doctor. Not now. The milk of human kindness within me has run dry. This is—by far—the worst thing you have ever done to me.”

The beanstalk shot down into his intestines, and its roots started to churn.

“You accessed my email account without my permission—indeed when I was exhausted, insensible, and therefore incapable of consenting, and replied, _in my name_ with juvenile disregard and in puerile language to a man who demands ultimate respect in all matters. You did so in order, I suppose, to score points against him, or to fancy yourself Sir Lancelot on a white charger, or to feel good about yourself. Only, you can walk away from your fantasy of heroics when you find a more interesting story to distract you. I, however, will never hear the end of this! I will never be permitted to forget the night I cowered behind my foolish, drunken colleague and let him fight my battles for me. He will never let me forget, and neither will my mother or my siblings. Or did you forget that I have four other relatives, none of whom think I am truly a human being?”

Newt’s throat felt too dry to swallow; he tried to, anyway.

Hermann took a deep breath. “I won’t even get into your sabotage of my alarm clock right now because, quite frankly, my blood pressure is one of the only things about my body that works, and I would like to keep it that way. You did not help me, Newton. What you did was to violate my privacy, then stab me in the back and twist the knife.”

“Hermann, I’m—”

“No!” Hermann roared as he jabbed his finger into Newt’s chest again. “You. Do. Not. Speak! I do not want your apology. I _reject_ your apology. If you truly cared for me, you would have been my ally; you would have picked up a weapon on my behalf when I asked, and fired when I told you to and not before.” He took a deep breath and swallowed. “Get out of my side of the laboratory.”

Newt stumbled away and collapsed in his chair.

“Selfish, vainglorious _child_ ,” Hermann snarled as he pounded across the floor to his blackboard and snatched up a piece of chalk. He began scribbling furiously.

It was all Newt could do not to cry.

\--

Time seemed to be flowing backward on his computer clock, or at the very least running at a tempo somewhere slower than largo. For example, Newt had been staring at the dumb report he had to file for the last ten hours, and it was somehow only 1217.

Shortly after screaming at him, Hermann had departed without a word. Newt didn’t need to know where he was going; Mass was held at 1100 each Sunday, and Hermann tried his best not to miss it, even when he was overwhelmed with work. While he was gone, his computer chirped four separate times, announcing the arrival of emails in his inbox; it took every bit of strength Newt still had left not to run over and make sure none of them were from anyone named Gottlieb.

God, he’d really fucked up here. Really, really, really, really, really, really fucked up. Like destroyed a relationship forever fucked up.

Newt tried not to think about having a lab alone, or sharing a room with Tendo or getting a single, but the images just kept flashing through his head with more and more horror.

He still had some Xanax, right? In his desk? Emergencies only, sure, he thought as he pulled it open and walked shaking fingers through messes of pens, paperclips, rubber bands, candy wrappers, and plastic Kaiju. Well, this was a five-alarm, category nine thousand Kaiju emergency, and—and fuck, where was the bottle?

The door squeaked open and Hermann entered. Newt nearly looked up before remembering not to look at Hermann at all. The last time he’d tried about—God, what was it, nine hours ago?—Hermann had just ignored him, which was almost worse than being screamed at. Almost. Still, he watched Hermann from the corner of his eye as his colleague leaned his cane against his desk and eased himself down into the chair. He was nervous—Newt knew because he checked his email at exactly 1330 on Sunday, and it was only…1222 now?

_Jesus, can’t this day just end already?_

At exactly 1245—Newt knew because he’d given up on either finding his Xanax or getting anything done today at all—Hermann leaned back in his chair and released a long, shuddering breath.

“What’s wrong?” Newt asked, turning his head to Hermann’s side of the room so quickly his neck popped. He’d forgotten the prohibition on speaking, though, and expected Hermann to yell at him again.

Only, he didn’t. His dark eyes were glossy for the second time in two days, but he didn’t look as if he was about to cry from distress this time. He lifted a trembling hand and beckoned Newt over.

“You don’t deserve this,” he said as his colleague approached, “but as you have now insinuated yourself into my family affairs, I see no reason to leave you guessing.”

“Okay,” Newt said. Hermann’s tone had gone from enraged back to prickly; he didn’t dare hope that he was forgiven yet, though. He leaned against Hermann’s desk, remembered that Hermann hated that, and straightened.

Hermann turned to his computer and enlarged his email program. “During Mass, I received four emails: two from Karla, one from Bastian, and one from my mother, though Dietrich, as ever, has nothing to say to me. All three of them are furious at Father and entirely on my side—though why there are ‘sides’ in his ongoing abuse of me is a matter I do not currently wish to contemplate.”

Newt nodded.

“My mother informs me that she and father had no such conversation about my support of the Wall or my being welcome in their home. She is, evidently, enraged with him not just for speaking for her, but for lying to me. Apparently, until your misguided actions last night, she was under the impression that he and I had merely been at odds over my father’s useless pet project. I wonder, of course, if she now still truly believes my childhood was the fairytale idyll she always insisted. I suppose time will reveal all.”

Newt nodded again and coughed; his throat felt as if it were filled with broken glass. “And—your siblings?”

“Bastian called him several choice obscenities and told me he loves me and the PPDC, and that he’s sorry for not writing sooner and more often to tell me so. In addition, I am to tell you that you are ‘punk rock,’ and he would like to buy you a beer the next time we are in London.”

The beanstalk of sick and anxiety that had somehow replaced his nervous system slowly began to furl again. “And Karla?” he nearly whispered.

“Much the same, though with far less profanity. She also apologized for her infrequent communications. She needn’t have, however; I am not an easy person to love.”

Newt bit his lip to keep from giving Hermann a two hour lecture on exactly why that was bullshit.

“Her second email contained several photographs of my nephew and niece,” Hermann said, his face softening into a fond smile. “And promises to visit Hong Kong as soon as she can. I intend to tell her not to put her safety or that of her husband and children at risk when telecommunicating will bring us all similar pleasure.”

The look he gave Newt almost seemed expectant.

“Woah,” Newt said, blinking. “That’s, uh…that’s wonderful. It really is. See? You thought they all hated you.”

“Yes,” Hermann said, running his hand lightly over the keyboard. “I suppose I misjudged them.”

“Do you still hate me?” Newt asked with all the meekness he could.

“‘Hate’ is a strong word, Newton. I endeavor not to use it.”

“Still mad at me, though?”

“Yes. But not to the degree I was earlier. Today’s gospel reading was the Parable of the Unmerciful Servant.”

“Uh, Hermann? You’re gonna have to help me out here. Because outside of freshman literature where we read the Torah and the Gospel of John? I’m pretty much only familiar with _The Brick Testament_.”

Hermann rolled his eyes as he swiveled around in his chair. “I will explain, then. It is a story of a servant who owes much to his master, and to whom much leniency is shown when he cannot repay his debts in a timely manner. He fails, however, to show similar mercy to a man who owes him money. I have been unmerciful to you, Newton, and for that—though not my anger—I apologize. Your actions were invasive and disrespectful, but you acted out of—of care and concern, which I believe cover a multitude of transgressions. I have sinned against you and will not take Communion until I can confess that sin.”

Newt felt the back of his neck heat; he rubbed it and tried his best to smile. “Uh, well, if it helps? I don’t think you sinned against me.”

Hermann rolled his eyes again. “A faint comfort, Newton; you don’t believe in sin.”

Newt looked at him sheepishly. “I fucked up, though. Big-time. And I’m sorry. I’m really—”

His eyes widened as Hermann pressed his hand between his palms. “Yes, I know. You are forgiven, though I daresay Our Lord must not have had you in mind when he said we are to forgive seventy times seven times.”

“Sweet. That means I’ve got a few more freebies coming, right?”

He meant it as a joke; Hermann seemed to take it as one, because he smiled and clasped Newt’s hand near to his heart; Newt could feel it beating beneath the blue sweater vest Hermann wore.

His favorite sweater vest…

“Please, Newton,” Hermann said, his tone unusually soft, and sounding very tired, “please don’t ever invade my privacy again. I am asked to forgive, but I am merely human. I don’t know that I can do so with such ease a second time.”

“Okay,” Newt promised, feeling the heat prickle down his back. Hermann’s hands were so soft, so warm… “Yeah. No more fucking with your email, unless you ask me to. But, um, please just consider blocking your dad, okay? Bastian’s right. He’s a dickhead.”

Surprisingly, Hermann chuckled at the profanity. “Yes, he is. And I have already done so. To paraphrase your words to him, I will speak to him again when he is ready to apologize. And now,” he said as he released Newt’s hands, “I believe it is long past lunchtime. I would like you to eat with me.”

“Yeah, I guess we can do that. Though if you give me shit about taking two chocolate milks—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. I do so only for your protection and mine! The sugar will make you unbearable.”

“Hey, man, I’ve got to do something to put up with you. Oh, um…speaking of eating?”

“Yes?”

Newt took a deep breath. He was only shaking, he told himself, because of the anxiety attack he’d been having all morning. That was it. Nothing about a dinner with Hermann was scary. “Okay, this sounds absolutely weird, but Pentecost thinks we’ve been working too hard, and there’s this ex-professor who runs a dim sum place outside Kowloon who apparently really wants to meet us. He’s a K-Sci fanboy or something.”

Hermann shook his head. “Congratulations, Newton. Your highest aspiration has now come true: you have a groupie.”

“Pssh. _A_ groupie. Any real rock star needs at least five million, but I guess it’s a start,” Newt drawled, feeling more comfortable by the minute. “But anyway, did you miss the part where I said ‘dim sum’? It’s free, his treat, and also, it’s dim sum?”

Hermann looked wistful for all of three seconds, and then his expression hardened again as if he had just caught himself actually wanting something. “It sounds lovely, Newton, but I’m afraid we haven’t the time.”

“Uh, well, problem is, Pentecost is kind of making us? So we don’t collapse from working too hard.”

“Don’t be absurd. The marshal would never—”

“Dude, you wanna V2V him and ask? Because he totally did. Something about burning yourself out not being good for the PPDC now that K-Sci is just us. Oh for—you are seriously going to message him?!”

“You must have misunderstood, Newton,” Hermann said as he called up the Shatterdome’s voice-to-voice communication program and punched in the code for Pentecost’s office. “The marshal would never tell us to waste valuable time when everything we thought about our enemy’s strategy has been proved incorrect.” He slipped the headpiece into his ear.

“Sure, dude. Whatever you say.” Newt shrugged and busied himself with cleaning out his desk drawer, in case his bottle of Xanax really was hiding in there. About thirty seconds—and one sticky package of what must have once been jellybeans—into the attempt, he gave up. It was just too much effort.

Besides. The conversation Hermann was about to have with Pentecost would probably be a lot more fun to pay attention to.

“Ah, Marshal, yes. Hello. This is Dr. Gottlieb. Newton has told me that—” Hermann listened, his brows drawing together.

Newt chuckled and shook his head.

“I see. He also said this was a— Yes, I see. Yes, sir. Good afternoon.” Hermann disconnected the V2V and sat string at his screen, his expression unusually neutral.

“Dim sum?” Newt singsonged.

Hermann sighed. “I think this is a mistake, Newton. It is folly to leave the Shatterdome at this time for any but the most essential of errands.”

“Dim sum?” Newt drawled.

“Yes, all right. Fine. Clearly I have been outranked and outmaneuvered.” But Newt detected a small smile as Hermann turned to look t him. “I accept.”

Newt fist-pumped the air, and the sound of Hermann chuckling was the sweetest thing he’d heard all year.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral, a dispute about hentai, and Newt finally figures something out.

(Friday.)

Typically, most Catholic services took place in the Shatterdome’s interfaith chapel, a stuffy, tiny, disused cargo bay Hermann and the other members of the dome’s interfaith council regularly tried to cheer up with flowers, or screens, or whatever bunting or drapes the local chapter of the International Friends of the PPDC managed to pull together. Funerals, though, were a different story. When a member of any Shatterdome died, especially in battle, Newt had found that most of its residents wanted to attend any memorial service, regardless of what faith they or the deceased were. He supposed it had something to do with being a thousands-strong, slightly dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless. And even though he had promised himself at fifteen he would never set foot in any religious building again, he made an exception for funerals.

Call it his hat tip to this “being an adult” thing Hermann so regularly accused him of failing at.

Catholic services, though, were the worst. It wasn’t that he hated Mass or the Catholic Church—though he couldn’t understand why so many people still paid attention to what a bunch of fossilized men (and the occasional woman) in beanies and/or half-assed drag had to say about women, or queer people, or the meaning of the universe or oh, hell, even the Kaiju.

He just found them really, really lackluster.

But as Hermann had reminded him on the one disastrous time he’d convinced Newt to come to Mass and Newt had fallen asleep, it wasn’t about him. It was about respect.

The funeral was pretty nice. Lots of flowers—lilies and marigolds had been Duc and Kaori’s favorites, respectively, and the white-and-orange scheme fit well with the green banners that signified Ordinary Time on the Church’s calendar. But it was so solemn—Newt couldn’t believe that no one but the priest and the lectors were allowed to speak, and only Fr. Patel got to actually talk about Duc and Kaori. And then he made it all about Jesus and God and faith and nothing about who Kaori and Duc were as people—like the way they always teased their technicians, or the friendly rivalry they had with _Striker Eureka_ ’s team.

 _It’s a formal service, Newton. And not at all secular_ , Hermann had explained the first time they’d buried a Catholic servicemember. But that seemed pretty pointless to Newt. Funerals were supposed to be for people left behind, right? Didn’t Jesus say something about that somewhere?

He’d ask Hermann later. Or probably not. He’d been up since seven to make sure the reception would go well, and to do some kind of rosary circle with anyone who wanted to pray it, Catholic or no, and he was looking pretty peaky up there near the altar with the other lector and the servers. It was probably a good thing he wasn’t serving the communion wine, either, Newt thought; his hands were shaking more than usual.

The reception was better, livelier, and finally people could actually talk and laugh and cry and not do things for God, who Newt was pretty sure wouldn’t have needed the attention even if he existed. An hour into it, Hermann came up to him, looking flat-out exhausted, and just a bit peevish.

“Fr. Patel has insisted that I take a nap instead of assisting with the clean-up,” he said archly.

That was probably the smartest thing the priest had said all day. Or probably ever. “And Fr. Patel wants to make sure you don’t faceplant in the punch, dude,” he said, offering Hermann his arm.

“Yes,” Hermann said as he took it. “He seems to be under the impression that I’m pushing myself too hard. I don’t like it, but I will not disregard his opinion lightly. Will you walk with me, Newton?”

“Yeah, sure.” Truth be told, Newt was looking for an excuse to go—funerals just made him feel numb after a while anymore, and that was not a cool feeling to have. Hermann staggered a little as they exited the cafeteria, and Newt slipped his arm around his colleague’s waist.

“‘I can function on six hours of sleep each night just fine, thank you, Dr. Geiszler’ my ass,” he grumbled.

“Do stop mothering me, Newton. I’ve already got one who now seems incapable of not contacting me for two hours at a time,” Hermann grumbled right back. And then his face cracked into a yawn.

“There! Seeeee?” Newt drawled. “If you fall over one of these days in the lab and end up landing in Kaiju guts, I’m so not taking responsibility, no matter what you put on the forms.”

“You’re a fool, Newton.”

“Yeah, but I’m your fool.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Newton nearly stumbled as he realized what he’d just said. “I mean, no one else will work with you, right? So, yeah.”

“I see,” Hermann said. And his voice sounded just a bit hollow.

As they entered the elevator, Newt decided a topic change was a great idea.

“Soooo,” hr chirped, trying his best to sound casual as he thumbed the button for their floor. “Friday night, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Any plans?”

Hermann yawned again. “Yes.”

“More illicit hentai shopping?” Newt wheedled. “Because, I mean, there’s this _Gundam_ DJ that I’m trying to track down called _Hard Limit!!_ And—”

“I am not buying cartoon pornography for you, Newton,” Hermann said in a strained voice that meant he was not amused, but in the not-amused way where he was _really_ not amused, and not pretending to not be amused.

Newt sighed as the heavy elevator doors shrilled open.

“Look, Hermann? I don’t want to pry, but—”

“Then you needn’t,” Hermann said, disentangling his arm. He exited the elevator and Newt followed him down the hall.

“It’s just that you don’t usually go out much, you know?” _Without me._ “And two weeks in a row, especially when you’ve been, like, running around ever since Saturday? I’m just curious.”

Hermann stopped walking and turned with some effort. “And curiosity is the true primrose path,” he said. Even his Rs sounded tired.

“So, you seriously won’t tell me?”

Hermann hesitated, tongue halfway between his rows of teeth. For a moment, Newt thought he’d spill. But then—

“Newton”—Hermann closed his eyes as if trying to gather the strength to once again explain subtraction to a stubborn, fidgety second-grader—“we have discussed the importance of allowing me my privacy. Now, please, stop asking me.”

“Yeah, but would you tell me if—”

“ _Newton._ ” Hermann raised his eyebrows. “It is a matter that does not concern you. It would behoove you to have a few matters to which I am not privy, yourself.”

“Sheesh. Okay, Cranky,” Newt grumbled as he keyed in the code to their door.

“We are, after all, two separate individuals, despite being referred to by the singular ‘K-Sci,’” Hermann said as he entered the room. “Would you like to take a nap with me?”

 _Hell, yeah. But I’d keep you too busy to sleep._ “Uh, no. _Striker_ ’s team’s having an electrical SNAFU with her relay. I said I’d take a look before duty. Jesus, Herm—”

“Language,” Hermann said halfheartedly as he eased onto his bed.

“I was just saying you are really fucked up if you can’t remember my schedule,” Newt said.

“Hmn.”

Newt hesitated in the doorway, trying to think of something else to ask. “Anything I can do for you today?”

“Yes.” Hermann covered himself with the blankets and waved a hand at Newt’s side of the room. “Clean that up before it attracts vermin—or before I fall over your comic books.”

“ _Manga_ , dude! How many times to I have to—”

“Funny books.”

“Mako will so kick your ass if she hears you call them that, man. Just sayin’.”

“Hmn,” Hermann said again with another hand wave. “Just clean them up, won’t you? Whatever they are.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, because you sure as hell don’t win any brownie points for personality.”

“Nhm, tired, Newton. Ordered to sleep.”

“Okay, okay. Go the fuck to sleep, Dr. Gottlieb.”

When Hermann only grunted, Newt shook his head and shut the door.

Halfway down to _Striker_ ’s bay, he realized he’d just called Hermann cute. To his face.

_What the hell is wrong with me today?_

***

He wanted to clean up his side of the room, he really did. But cleaning was just so—

“Eurgh!” Newt said to the dirty laundry kicked under his bed. “How the fuck did you get under there? Because I didn’t put you under there! Seriously, I mean, I know I’m not exactly Mr. Clean”— _Understatement of the Common Era_ —“But, like, why are my Kicks here? And why are you wedged against the wall?” he asked the pair of totally awesome Twelfth Doctor pants the BBC Store had finally—finally!—made after, what, six years of begging? Groaning, Newt climbed back onto his mattress to pull them out.

“Eurgh!” he said again.

Exactly. He’d been at this for like twelve hours already, and so far he had a tiny pile of laundry and some stacked _tankōbon_. Cool! _Not_.

Okay, Newt admitted as he glanced at the clock, maybe it was more like five minutes, but technically, time didn’t really exist. So five minutes might as well be twelve hours, right?

“Hey, I never said I was a quantum physicist,” he told Hermann.

Only Hermann wasn’t there.

It was 1900, and he was on his date.

With someone boring. Who God also didn’t like very much, by the way.

He hoped Hermann knew that.

Newt unwrapped a candy bar that for some reason had been stuffed halfway beneath his mattress and bit into the chocolaty nougat goodness.

“I’m not pouting,” he told Hermann-who-wasn’t-there. “It’s just that you could do _so_ much better. And anyway, you usually do the cleaning. So why do I have to clean? What’s that about?”

_Because you promised, jackfuck._

_Oh. Yeah._

He took another bite and looked over at Hermann’s fastidiously made bed. The swept floor. The color-coded half of the closet (the one that was also not exploding with stuff), and the precisely aligned books—Newt knew they were precisely aligned because he once saw Hermann go at them with a ruler when he’d—gasp! shock!—knocked them over with a Frisbee, but really, he only did that to prove a point about a little chaos not being a bad thing!

Hermann could be so close-minded sometimes.

Then again, Newt thought as he took another bite of chocolate, the cleaning was another thing that turned him on about Hermann. It was weird; of all the fetishes he had—and, boy, did he have a lot!—he never thought fucking _housekeeping_ would be one.

As he studied Hermann’s bed, he felt a new fantasy for the catalogue coming on.

Hermann bending over to fold back the blanke—no, no. To tuck the sheets in, his loose pants sliding up against that soft butt—God, Hermann had a fantastic ass. Just a bit round and just enough lift, but not too much bubble—Newt hated that look; hell, even the really, really specific fetish sites and the pornerdery ones always had guys that looked like they were from _GQ_ and spent their paychecks on cheek implants. Hermann’s rear was way hotter.

So why didn’t he get a better look at it?

Newt leaned back against the bed frame and stripped Imaginary Hermann down to a pair of blue cotton briefs that he’d once seen on top of the laundry basket before Hermann could do the folding. They’d been generic but sturdy and Newt had really wanted to swipe them to beat off with but, ew, how creepy was that? So he just took a mental picture, because it sure as hell lasted longer.

Blue briefs, white socks—Hermann looked adorable and just so _Hermann_ in stocking feet—and—hm. Something else he could take off? A muscle shirt? No, Hermann hated tight-fitting things, and he wanted to see his back, anyway. An apron?

Newt shrugged. A little femme in a way Hermann wasn’t, but make it boxy and put some math joke that wasn’t even a joke except maybe if you were Fermat on it and it’d do.

Imaginary Hermann bent lower, spreading his legs just a bit while holding on to the bed for support, and giving Newt a great view of his package.

“Yeah,” Newt murmured. “Yeah, baby. Stay right there.”

Newt’s cock was pressing hard against the seam of his Levi’s. He’d had some honest-to-fuck porn star orgasms before just by imagining what he’d say to Hermann, but apparently doing dirty talk in real life was getting him off even faster. The thick line scrubbed at his balls, his taint, and his ass crack as he shifted his weight, which only made him harder.

“Don’t move,” he whispered as he fumbled with his zipper. He yanked his pants and briefs down to his knees and then off into a puddle in front of him. His dick bounced freely into his hands as if they were fuck buddies who hadn’t seen each other in years, but who were going to hit it off great again anyway. Reclining back against the bed frame, he ran his thumb over the slit.

“Yeah,” he whispered again as he closed his eyes.

Hermann stiffened against his back as he trailed his fingers around his hip and caught the knot that closed the apron around Hermann’s waist.

“Wh-what are you doing, Newton?” Hermann sounded breathless, dry-throated, shy, but oh, yeah, eager.

“Getting a better look at you, dude,” Newt said as he walked his fingers up the scars on Hermann’s back. They were slick like lips, pink like coral, red like raspberries.

Hermann shivered as Newt kissed the nape of his neck and used his teeth to tug open the slip knot that held the apron there.

Sometimes the best part of his Hermann sex fantasies was getting Hermann into a position he liked that could support his leg and back, coaxing him, teasing him along the way with little kisses and nips and touches. Sometimes Hermann was demure and shy, blushing and squirming and protesting _no, no but oh yes, Newt_ under his hands; sometimes, he was hot for it, grinding up against Newt’s cock, smashing Newt’s face into his neck and demanding to be bitten and kissed until he bruised; sometimes, he was a screamer.

Today, Newt wanted shy Hermann, covering his body with his hands as Newt pulled the apron aside.

“Hey,” he murmured as he grabbed Hermann’s hands and pulled them to his sides. “Let me look at you, baby. Mhh, man, you’re hot.”

Hermann blushed and turned his head to the side, but he was moaning, arching his hips up into Newt’s, rubbing their cocks together. Grinning, Newt grabbed the left side of his briefs with both hands and pulled in opposite directions, ripping the thin cloth down the seam.

“Newton!” Hermann shrieked as Newt did the same thing to the other side and tore the underwear away.

Yeah, the sight of Hermann glaring at him as he covered his cock really got Newt going. And from the look of things, the blushing virgin routine was turning Hermann on just as much.

“Let me see that cock, Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt purred as he batted at his hands.

And after squirming and blushing some more and calling him some choice names, Hermann moved his hands.

Newt had spent a lot of time gazing at Hermann’s package over the last decade, though usually just for a few seconds at a clip here and there—unless, of course, Hermann was working at the board and standing in profile, or sitting at his desk with his legs open, in which case, Newt usually got a few minutes in before Hermann sensed something might be up—well, at least in the non-dirty sense of the word, anyway. Over the years, he’d memorized every detail of that bulge and done his best to plot out a realistic model on his favorite drafting program. He was reasonably sure he had a fair approximation: about average length—not that that was a bad thing; Newt loved all sizes— a little bit curved, pretty symmetrical balls, and he just bet there was a nice thatch of curls and a treasure trail that led down to them.

Hermann always whimpered and rocked his hips up as if he were trying to fuck the air when Newt kissed down that trail to the head of his cock. And he did that now too.

“What are you doing to me, Newton? Oh, what are you doing to me?”

“It’s not obvious, dude?” Newt chuckled as he gently rolled Hermann onto his right side and shimmied down so he was mouth level with that fucking fabulous cock. “I’m gonna blow you ’til I get strep throat.”

He braced his left leg with an arm and licked along his cock.

God, he loved imagining Hermann covering his mouth to keep from screaming with lust. Loved the thought of him screaming his name into their kisses. But in this fantasy, Hermann just writhed and keened with less and less of his typical inhibition as Newt took him into his mouth and down his throat.

Newt Geiszler loved cock—and pussy too. As long as he could suck on it and drink it when it got wet, he was good. Probably too good; at MIT, he’d been dubbed Geiszler the Guzzler after blowing his way through half the theoretical mathematics master’s cohort and a good chunk of the geology, astrophysics, and AI programs—even though the Guzzler never fucked around in his own departments, he sure as all hell was interdisciplinary!

In retrospect, the name was stupid and so was putting his mouth around everything with an owner who said yes. But, he’d been horny kid with more homesickness than he wanted to admit and grief issues he didn’t know how to handle—then again, when your dad died right before your nineteenth birthday, you kind of had a license to be a bit fucked up, right?. And anyway, that as in the past. In fact, he hadn’t hooked up in—

Newt paused the fantasy and opened his eyes.

“Yeah,” he asked the room, “when did I last do that?”

It wasn’t like the looming (potential! Always potential!) apocalypse meant that people put their lives on hold. Au contraire, they seemed to want to do even more living—which was why Shatterdome brass looked the other way when it came to consensual sex unless said sex got disruptive or uncomfortable to others. But since joining the PPDC and hitting his thirties, he’d calmed the fuck down.

“Let’s see.” He held a hand out and counted on his fingers, “Kris, Tendo and Allison on Allison’s birthday that one time—and BFF threeways are fucking awesome, by the way—Kris again at the holiday party, those two Dutch technicians at that conference in Delft, uhh, Steve for a few weeks—okay, that was more than a hookup if it was two weeks. Uh…Steve…Steve…”

Steve had been in 2021.

Four years ago.

Everyone else was before.

“Nahh,” Newt laughed. “C’mon.” But he did the math again, and actually, Steve was probably closer to the end of 2020 if he wanted to get technical about it. Which he did. So, over four years.

“Huh. That’s weird. Why didn’t I notice until now?”

_Because you’ve been whacking off thinking about Hermann twice a day, man. Bare minimum._

Newt swallowed.

Okay.

There was a big, dark abyss here that he didn’t want to stare into, because chances were it would probably stare back.

It was mainly because, when you had a roommate, it was really fucking awkward to put a sock on the doorknob, especially when you didn’t have a doorknob and said roommate glared at you for days after the deed, refused to speak to you, and put toothpaste or baking soda in your coffee—which was really inappropriate; jeez, the fucked-up Family Gottlieb really didn’t understand how to use their words, did they?

_No, Newt._

Okay. It was mainly because he had so much work, and long hours plus stress always fucked with your social life.

_Try again._

It was mainly because it was kind of embarrassing to share your Kaiju fetish with people who were trying to kill the things.

_Nope._

Because he was pushing thirty-six and your sex drive just declined around then?

_Newt..._

Medication? Because lamotrigine—

_Newt? Seriously._

“Okay,” Newt said as the abyss stared into him. “So, that’s how it’s gotta be, huh?”

And he looked.

Truth be told, he’d started to lose interest in no-strings-attached sex shortly after he joined the PPDC. Not because the ranger academy was hard work—though it was—or because it was filled with people he didn’t want to fuck—it wasn’t.

Not at all.

It was because of the guy in J-Science who later moved on over to K-Science. The one who was always yelling at him, who couldn’t match solids and colors, who turned his froggy little nose up at iced tea, and who he just couldn’t stay away from for more than a few days without wanting to climb the walls.

_And his name is?_

It was because of the guy who had no life outside work, church, and harassing HR, and who told him what a tool bag he was every day, but who held him when he had panic attacks, and reminded him to take his meds, and one time rubbed his shoulders when Newt had a pinched nerve, even though Newt later found out his leg had felt like broken glass strung up with some dying nerve tissue at the time.

_And his name…?_

It was because of the guy he’d threatened to quit the PPDC over if they were ever assigned to separate Shatterdomes. The guy who some nights he just wanted to hold and kiss for hours and fuck the fucking. The guy who could ruin him with a look or a word if he really wanted to, yet somehow never did.

_Newt. Say his name._

“Hermann,” Newt whispered.

He came so hard he saw white spots.

“Fuuuuuck,” he moaned. And it was just on the cusp of a sob.

Hermann could utterly destroy him. Did so every time.

For a few minutes, he just lay there, floating, the seed on his hand cooling, his ears buzzing just a little.

The abyss sure felt nice. Warm and dizzy and bright and oh fuck—

Newt sat up so quickly his vision sparked.

_I’m in love with him. Have been for ten years._

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shatterdome Is Awesome Guild return!

(Friday night.)

“Fuck!”

Newt slammed his hands against his desk as the last member of the Shatterdome Is Awesome Guild, Jin’s orc, keeled over and stayed down. “Son of a piss-drinking butt-juice monkey cock-eating dogshit asshole!” He grabbed his coffee mug and brought it to his lips. Halfway there, the handle slipped from his grasp, and a water balloon’s worth of coffee splattered all over his lap.

“ _Fuck!!!_ ” Newt roared as he leaped out of his chair and ran in place. “Ow! Ow! Ow! That’s my penis! Ow! And my scrotum! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

“Newt? You okay?” he vaguely heard Tendo ask through the headset over his screaming. “We need to come up there?”

Newt leaned over and made a sound like a dying giraffe.

“Do…we even want to know the answer to that? Really?” Jin asked.

“Newt? Is everything okay?” Mako’s turn. She sounded worried.

Yeah, Newt thought as he ripped his jeans down, she should be. Wiping tears from his eyes, he straightened his wireless headset. “S-sorry. Hot coffee. Hot coffee. In. My lap!”

“Oh, I did that once in _Cherno_!” Aleksis said. “Use icepack.”

“You what? Why were you drinking coffee in a Jaeger?”

“It was long mission walking perimeter of Russian wall! Sasha and I were very tired.”

“Yeah, bet that woke you up,” Newt said as he pulled his sopping underwear down.

“I can confirm this. The icepack was a good idea,” Sasha said.

“Do you need me to ask one to be sent up, Newt?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, thanks, Mako. Hopefully I can move when they bring it.” Newt looked down at the angry red aureole encompassing his groin, thighs, and stomach.

“Get a cold washcloth while you wait,” Tendo suggested. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

“Nah,” Newt said as he limped to the bathroom door. “This headset’s ballin’. It’s got like a thirty foot range. Which is like three times the size of this room, I swear.” He grabbed a faded washrag from the towel rack and turned the faucet on. It was the one with the ugly yellow-flower pattern that they’d picked up in Lima. He hefted himself up on the counter and pressed the cloth to his screaming skin.

“I’m sorry I freaked you all out after I fucked up the healing,” he said. “Didn’t mean for this dungeon to turn into a Geizsler Goof.”

“It’s fine, Newt. It’s a hard dungeon,” Tendo said. “We’ll take a crack at it next week. But, uh…”

Newt winced. “I can hear the question coming, Tendo. And I’m not really sure how to answer it.”

“So, Hermann’s out again?”

“But of course, Jin!” Aleksis boomed. “Hermann would get icepack for his—Sasha—what is—?” And he said something in Russian.

Sasha snorted and responded in a clipped tone.

“Look, you guys really need to stop doing that,” Newt said. “Because I know what you’re saying.”

Silence.

“Oh,” Aleksis said, after what sounded like a swallow. “You speak Russian, Newt?”

“What? No. But I know why you are. You’re talking about how Hermann and I are a couple. Well, we’re not, okay? And even if we were, he wouldn’t get me an icepack. He’d just sit there—shaking his head and telling me it served me right for drinking that foul beverage and wasting my time with toys. And then he’d probably—you know what? Fuck him. He’s not even here right now to laugh at me.”

More silence.

Finally, Tendo cleared his throat. “Uh, Newt? Is there something you’d like to tell us?”

“That Hermann’s a dickwad? Um. Yes?”

“C’mon,” Jin urged.

“No.”

“Newt…,” Mako teased.

“No!” Newt leaned his head back against the scratchy mirror and rolled his eyes. “Look, I—”

Their voices all clustered together in a chorus of encouragement.

Newt sighed. “Yeah, okay,” he said quietly. “Hermann’s not that bad.”

“Just not that bad?” Tendo asked.

“Yeah. No. I don’t—” Another sigh. “Fine. I love him, okay? Is that what you wanted t—”

Something that sounded like a hive of bees strung out on helium exploded through the headset. Newt grabbed his ears.

“Ow!” a few voices agreed.

“Jesus _Christ_! Who did that!” Newt yelled. “And what was that?”

“Oh, man!” Jin laughed. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that! I bought this kazoo back in 2019! Just for when you finally said it!”

“Twenty-nin—Jin, you are fucking weird, you know that?” Newt sighed. “Okay. So. Now you know.”

“People,” Tendo said, “I think it’s time to initiate Operation True Heart.”

“Oh, I think you’re right,” Jin said, right before he blasted his kazoo again.

“Stop doing that!” Newt snapped, hands on his ears a second time. “And what operation? What are you talking about? This rade was called Operation Kick the Dragon’s Ass.”

He heard what sounded like several people shuffling off their headsets.

“Uh, guys?”

Silence. Again.

“Hellooo?”

Silence.

“The fuck?” Newt sighed. “Oh Jesus. You guys are _not_ coming up here, are you?”

Silence.

“You are not coming up here when my dick is falling off.”

Was that a giggle in the background?

“Fine. Be that way.” Newt yanked the headset off, eased himself off the counter, and stomped over to the closet—or tried to, anyway; stomping just made the fire down below burn brighter.

“Bathrobe,” he muttered. “The fuck don’t I own a bathrobe?”

Because towels did the job just fine, and it pissed Hermann off when he wandered around in one displaying his ink.

Well, shit. That’d never feel the same again.

A lot of things would never feel the same again.

“Yeah, and that’s why I never let you tell me, brain,” Newt snapped. “You’re so stupid sometimes.”

_Thanks. I’ll be here all night._

“Hermann. Hermann has a bathrobe!” Newt suddenly remembered. Because there it was, on a hanger, and pressed because Hermann actually ironed bathrobes for some reason, even though it was a nice, fluffy terrycloth.

Newt pulled it off the hanger and wrapped up in it. Hermann was a little taller—which was irritating—but they were about the same size, so the robe fit perfectly. He tightened the sash around his waist and pulled the hood up over his head.

Green tea. Ginseng. Chalk dust.

“Mhhh. Hermann smell.” Newt covered his face and breathed in deeply. “Wow.”

If he bitched about Newt wearing his stuff, he’d tell him it was an emergency. Not that he was being creepy or anything.

He inhaled again. Chalk dust. Green tea. Ginseng.

“How can we bottle this? Because I need to smell like this every day.”

He jerked out of his reverie as someone gently rapped against the metal door.

“Go away. I don’t want to subscribe to your newsletter,” he yelled.

“C’mon, Newt! We’ve got your ice pack,” Jin said in a stupid singsong voice that made Newt want to kick him .

“I’m not buying your knife set, either!”

“And doughnuts!”

Newt licked his lips. “The hell did you get doughnuts?”

“Carrefour,” Aleksis said. “Sasha and I did shop there yesterday. We thought we would buy, just in case.”

“’Just in case’?” Newt waddled to the door and opened the peephole. Everyone was standing outside, grinning like assholes.

Shit. Mako had even snagged Raleigh.

Great.

“We had a feeling you would be telling us soon,” Sasha said.

“What? How?”

“The guild is psychically linked, remember?” Jin this time.

“There’s no scientific proof that throwing ourselves into the ocean in December does that, Jin. I’ve told you. Again: you’re _weird_.”

“But the psychic oath we swore did something,” Jin insisted.

“Weird.”

“Newt,” Tendo said, shifting out of Newt’s line of sight. He tapped the door. “We’ll wait out here all night if we have to. And eat these while you watch.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

But Mako was already removing a glazed doughnut from the Carrefour box and offering it to Raleigh.

“Okay, but don’t be stupid about this, all right?” Newt asked as he opened the door. “Because this is—eugh!”

He was immediately hugged by Mako, Jin, and Aleksis—though Aleksis was more hugging them all, really.

“Can’t breathe,” he gasped. “T-too many bodies.”

“My turn,” Tendo said, nudging in and clapping him on the shoulder. Sasha patted the other one.

Raleigh just stood there grinning like an idiot. “Someone want to tell me what this is all about?

“Newt finally admitted he’s in love with Herm—I mean, Dr. Gottlieb,” Tendo explained.

“Wait…what?” Raleigh’s grin faltered slightly. “I don’t understand. Aren’t you guys married?”

Newt banged his head against Jin’s shoulder.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Jin said. “But no.”

“Our Newt is a genius, but not so smart when it comes to feelings,” Sasha said charitably.

“Oh, fuck you, Sasha! And you guys are crushing me, seriously, get off!”

The hug pile stepped back, and Newt winced as his dick brushed against the terrycloth. “Thanks,” he said as Mako handed him the icepack.

“Our Newt is also clumsy,” Sasha explained when Raleigh just gave him a quizzical look. “He spilled coffee on his lap and burnt his—”

“Yeah, Sasha, thanks for the play by play! God, you guys are the worst friends ever.”

“He also tells us that every Friday,” Jin said. “So can we come in with these or—”

Newt sighed. “Okay, fine, but no sitting on Hermann’s bed or getting crumbs anywhere on his side of the room, okay? I swear he can sense them.”

The group shuffled into the room, making various promises along the way that they would not.

Newt settled on his bed with a chocolate doughnut and discretely eased the ice under his robe. A second later, Jin snuggled up behind him and Tendo stretched out on the other side. Mako and Raleigh pulled up desk chairs near the foot of the bed, but the Kaidanovskys remained standing.

“Is that Hermann’s robe?” Mako asked, nodding at it.

Newt tucked it over his _Pac-Man_ shirt protectively. “It was an emergency,” he explained.

She raised an eyebrow and giggled.

“What? I don’t own a bathrobe! And no way am I putting anything next to my junk now but ice.”

“When are you going to tell him?” Jin asked, poking him in the ribs.

Newt sighed. “I don’t know. Never? Never sounds nice.”

“That’s not how this works. You know that, right?” Tendo asked.

“It is if you’re Hermann. And anyway…” Newt handed his doughnut off to Tendo. Suddenly he didn’t feel like eating it; his stomach was bubbling. “I’m—I’m too late. He’s seeing someone else.”

“I could talk to this someone.” Aleksis popped his knuckles.

“And make him hate me even more than he does? Oh that’s real smart, Aleksis, real smart.” Newt shook his head. “Anyway, I don’t even know who it is. He just…disappears every Friday at 1900 or so. Like today. Or he did this week and last week. I don’t know. Maybe he’s just shopping or something?” He shook his head. “No, probably not. Because he’d tell me that. But he won’t tell me what this is. Which means it’s probably some other person.”

“Wait. He won’t tell you?” Raleigh frowned. “Sorry, Newt. I know we don’t know each other very well yet, so if you’d like me to—”

“No, man. It’s cool. You’re good.” Newt waved a hand at him absently. “You’re practically an honorary guild member now, I mean. Right, Tendo?”

“Well, we have been talking about inducting you, Raleigh. But we can talk about that later. Don’t change the subject, Newt.” He poked him in the stomach.

Newt hissed and swiped at him. “To answer your question, Raleigh, it’s because Hermann is Hermann. He doesn’t really do talking. About anything. And yeah, I did ask where he was going. And he told me to go fuck myself—er, figuratively. Because Hermann also really doesn’t do swearing. Anyway, I kind of…well, I kind of did something really stupid last Saturday that involved nosing around when he wouldn’t talk to me—”

“I knew it!” Jin said. “You were the one who told his dad off!”

Newt blinked. “Okay, how did you hear that? That was between Pentecost, me, and him.”

“Uh. Shit.” Jin blushed. “Okay, you can totally not tell anyone this, any of you. But I have a friend in IT. And he’s been instructed to flag any incoming or outgoing emails to Lars Gottlieb.”

“Wait, _Pentecost_ asked for this?” Mako fidgeted and moved closer to Raleigh. “Sorry, Mako. I know he’s your dad, but if he thinks Hermann is passing information , I’m going to p—”

“No, man, no!” Jin waved his hands. “No one thinks that! That’d be, like, FDR calling up Hitler and Mussolini to tell them all about Normandy! We all know Hermann’s loyal to the PPDC! It’s just because Gottlieb the Elder is public enemy number one around here, right after that US senator guy. He’d love to close the program down early so he can get that contract going. Everyone knows that.”

“Great, just great. If Hermann finds out people are reading his mail, he’s gonna kick that kid’s ass all the way to Japan.”

“The point is,” Jin continued, “my friend hinted that somebody told Dickbag Gottlieb to go fuck himself, and it was awesome! I had a feeling it was you.”

“Yeah, and we had the worst fight ever because I did that. No way am I poking into his business again now.”

“Can’t you just ask him if he’s seeing someone, because you’d like to date him?” Raleigh asked.

“Yeah, you’d think, but here’s the thing; we’re K-Sci now. All that’s left of it. So if things get weird, that affects our work together.”

“Why would things get weird?”

Newt sighed. “Because if he turns me down, I don’t know if I can cope. Or live with him anymore. Or see him at all.”

Tendo rubbed his back, and Mako sat on the edge of the bed and patted his legs.

“Fuck, he’s right. I’m so immature. So fucking high school.”

“Is not fair.”

Everyone looked at Aleksis.

“Is not fair,” he repeated. “You are Hermann’s friend.”

“Barely,” Newt muttered.

“No. You are only friend he has,” Aleksis insisted. “He should not keep secrets from you. Not this secret. Is normal to talk about—dating?” He looked to Sasha for confirmation; she nodded. “Dating. With friends. Is normal to talk about family. With friends. Is not normal to share these things. What he is doing is not fair.”

“Yeah, well, nothing about us is normal. Or friendly,” Newt said. And then he laughed. “Oh, hey, speaking of dating, guess what? Pentecost is sending us on a date tomorrow night!”

Mako looked as though she was losing her mind.

“Okay, well, he didn’t call it _that_ ,” he said. “But he told me to take him out for dim sum before he had some kind of stress meltdown. Apparently, we have a groupie who runs a Chinese restaurant near the bone slums and wants to spoil us.”

“But that’s perfect opportunity!” Sasha cried. “You can tell him then.”

“Oh, yeah, with a long, awkward ferry ride back after he dumps kimchi all over my hair. No thanks.”

“Newt, you should try,” Mako pressed. “Even if he says no, then you will at least know so you can move on.”

“I’ve been with him for ten years, Mako. That’s longer than a lot of marriages last. I don’t think I can do that without…” Newt blinked quickly. “Fuck, it’s like tearing your heart out with tweezers. This is why I never do relationships,” he told Tendo. “Sex is easy; sex is fun.”

“Sex doesn’t take work,” Raleigh said. “Newt, do you love Hermann?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to be with him?”

Newt blushed. “Yeah.”

“Then sometimes, you’ve gotta take a risk. Life’s all about that.”

Newt shook his head and thought for a while. No one spoke; they all gave him space.

“Okay,” he said on an exhale. “Okay. But there’s just one problem, aside from the obvious.”

“What’s that?” Tendo asked.

Newt gave him a watery smile. “The last date I had was in 2015, and it sucked. I don’t really know how you do it.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date, a game of Trivial Pursuit, dim sum, Geiszler-Gottlieb groupies, and...is that a love confession you're attempting, Newt?

Well, Newt thought as he zipped up his turtleneck Scottevest. He was as ready as he’d ever be. He gave himself a last look in the bathroom mirror. Scottevest. Sexy Twelfth Doctor pants. Nice black dress shirt. Red skinny tie. Stompy boots.

He ran a hand through his gelled hair one more time.

Yeah. He looked pretty fuckable.

“Hey?” He tapped on the closed bathroom door. “You ready in there, Hermann?”

“Yes.”

Newt took a deep breath. “Okay,” he whispered. “I can do this.” _It’s just Hermann. And he sucks—okay, bad choice of words. And he’s a jerk who does jerk things. Like roll around in chalk dust or something. Yeah. Okay. Hermann is a jerk._

He opened the door.

Hermann was wearing a suit.

Newt froze. Whoever first said that thing about eyes being dinner plates was right, he thought. He felt like he could be eating steak tartare off his right now.

He hadn’t seen that suit since, what, that cocktail party in London in 2019? The one they’d been forced to attend to make J- and K-Sci look remotely interested in the world they were protecting. It still fit perfectly. But Armani was probably designed to, like, grow and shrink with your body for what they charged. Either that or Hermann was an actual Time Lord who didn’t age. Which would be awesome, but—

Hermann Gottlieb was wearing an honest-to-God designer suit. And an elegant matching scarf.

And both were navy blue.

Of course. Only the best color on him ever. _Kill me now, why don’t you?_

“Newton?”

Newt forced the dinner plates back down to saucers.

Hermann inclined his head and stepped forward. “is everything all right?”

“Uh…yeah. Duh. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Yeah. Because you never wear a suit. ”

“We are dining at a five-star restaurant.” Hermann’s gaze raked up him, and Newt felt his cheeks heat when his face twisted into a frown. “Oh, Newton, no. You are not wearing that.”

“What?” Newt spun around slowly. “What’s wrong with it?”

“ _Cos_ play trousers, Newton?”

“Pfft. Please.” Newt waved a hand. “This Mr. Tang guy’s a Geiszler-Gottlieb groupie—”

“Don’t call him that.”

“ _And_ ,” Newt went on as if Hermann hadn’t spoken, “therefore, he knows I don’t do suits. Unless they’re the Tenth Doctor’s. Oh, I guess I could go and put that on.”

“Please don’t.”

“No, no. You want a suit, that’s the closest thing I’ve got.”

Hermann rolled his eyes heavenward, and Newt guessed he was probably asking God for the strength not to choke him. Or a good place to hide the body if he did. “Oh, all right,” he sighed. “I suppose this is the best I’m going to get out of you without dressing you myself.”

Newt nearly fell over. “You’d do that? I mean. Um—you’d—”

“Oh do stop blathering and come along,” Hermann said as he turned and retrieved his snorkel parka from the closet. “If we miss the ferry and arrive two hours late for our supper, I’ll lace your coffee with something far more unpleasant than Crest,” he added as he zipped it.

“Yeah, you say that to all the hot guys.” Newt grabbed the sack of cushions and the quilt and followed, trying his damndest not to check out Hermann’s ass.

He failed. Miserably.

The ferry was waiting when they reached the dock, and a handful of techs were rolling a few large crates onto the deck. Newt was pretty sure they were the remains of one of the destroyed Jaegers—probably Tacit Ronin, he thought with a cringe. There was a whole black market for Jaeger salvage, and not just to be used in other heavy anti-Kaiju machines. Lots of rich collectors all over the world would pay truly disgusting sums of money for a part of Kaiju War history like a piece of a downed Jaeger’s leg or a strip of plating. Nobody liked it, but money was money, and the PPDC needed more than anyone was giving it these days.

He looked at Hermann, who was staring very intently at the sky.

“Hey.” He twined his fingers through Hermann’s, and the other man looked at him. “You okay travelling with that—”

“Of course.” Hermann withdrew his hand, but not immediately, Newt noted. Not immediately was good. “War necessitates many unpleasant things. None of us can afford sentimentality.”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

They boarded the ferry in silence.

The benches along the sides were made out of worn wood—fine for Newt, but murder for Hermann’s back and hips. Newt opened the duffle bag they always brought to the ferry and sat out the cushions—two for the seat, one for the back usually did the trick. At least these benches weren’t so shallow you had to perch on them.

“This look about right?” he asked as Hermann slipped his hood up over his head.

“Yes. Thank you.” As Hermann sat, Newt noticed he was already shivering. “This foul weather. My entire laboratory for a sunny day.”

“Yeah, I’m with you there, man.” Newt sat down beside him. “Hey…uh…if you’re cold….” He opened his arms and wiggled his fingers.

Hermann hesitated only a moment before scooting in and tucking himself against Newt’s side.

 _Score._ Newt grinned as he wrapped his right arm around Hermann’s shoulders and reached across his body to rub Hermann’s arm with the other.

“What on earth is pressing against my leg?”

Shit. Was he—no, no, so far his dick was still nursing its wounds. Also, it couldn’t be cozying up to Hermann’s thigh. That was anatomically impossible.

“Newton.” Hermann patted his leg. “Do you have a tablet in this?”

“Huh? Yeah. Never leave home without your ID, your phone, and your iPad, dude.”

“And your video games?” Hermann’s hand poked around near his left pec.

“Uh. Yeah? Long ferry ride; no attention span.”

“Is this a traveling edition of _Trivial Pursuit_?”

“Yes, yes it is. The ’00s one that you always lose at.”

Hermann’s fingers brushed higher and rolled around near his nipple.

“H-hey! Should we get a room or something?”

_Please say yes._

“How many pens do you have in here?”

“I dunno. Five?”

“I’ve counted at least thirty. You are always stealing my pens, yet you have thirty of them shoved in your ridiculous jacket—”

“Woah, woah. Do _not_ insult the Scottevest Firebrand! This is nerd royalty.”

“Hmph. It looks ridiculous. _You’re_ ridiculous.”

“And you’re shivering.” Newt reached down into the bag and pulled out the thick quilt they traveled with in cold weather. “Here.” He shifted away from Hermann just long enough to spread it out over them, and then returned his arm around his shoulder. “Also? Put your hand in my jacket.”

“What?”

“Outer pocket, dude. Here.” Newt guided Hermann’s gloved left hand into the large cargo pocket on his Firebrand.

“Oh.” Hermann turned his head to look at him. “Is that—”

“Yup. A HotRock. One of the minis. We’ll probably have to charge it at the restaurant to be safe, but”—Newt tapped the pocket near his neck and smirked—“I got the charger tucked in here along with my ear buds. There’s another one in there for your right hand, if you want to put it in your pocket.”

“These must have been incredibly expensive.” Hermann actually sounded respectful as he removed one of the tiny devices (designed to look like large sapphires) and slipped it under the blanket. “But so very beautiful.”

“Nahh.” Newt dismissed the idea with a twist of his neck. “I got a guy who hooked me up. And even if they were, you really should let people do nice things for you.”

“Hm.” It sounded thoughtful, sure, but they both knew it was Hermannese for “I am uncomfortable with the trajectory of this discussion; may we talk about work or the weather or why you are the world’s worst biologist instead?”

Just then, the ferry grumbled to life, saving Newt from having to think of a topic that didn’t involve either why Hermann should be spoiled rotten or why they should make out right now.

“Sooo,” he said when the ferry had reached water. “Dim sum!”

“Yes.”

“You gonna go vegetarian today?”

“Yes. I think I can afford to for one meal.”

Hermann’s body needed protein and animal fats to a degree that pretty much disgusted its owner. He had wanted to be vegetarian if not fully vegan from childhood, and was still upset that his body wouldn’t let him. He knew better than to fuss about the fact that the meat they gave them at the Shatterdome was probably about as far from free range as McDonald’s was from actual food, but Newt knew that eating was usually a chore for him because of it. At least he’d stopped feeling bad about not being able to always get fish on Wednesday or Friday, though—which not even the real Catholic Church asked people to do anymore, and God sure didn’t care about, so Newt had no idea what the problem was there.

“And you?”

“Naw, man. You know me. Meat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner!”

“Would that we could trade constitutions,” Hermann said, just seconds before his eyes widened. “Oh. I didn’t mean—”

“No, man. It’s cool. I’d trade too, if I could.”

“Unusually generous of you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s me. Mr. Generous. So. We’ve got a hour to kill, at least. Um. I did bring my classic DS, and your least favorite board game, that’s true, _but_ ”—Newt took his hand from Hermann’s arm to fumble in his jacket for his iPod—“I thought you might like to listen to some tunes instead.”

“Oh, Newton, no. I get far too much of your noise each day!”

“No, no. Trust me, man. This is _not_ my usual brain-rotting garbage.” Newt tugged out his ear buds, separated them, and held one up to Hermann’s head.

Hermann gave him a doubtful look.

“Just trust me, okay?”

‘Oh, very well.’ Hermann turned his head and pushed the furred hood of his parka away from his left ear. Newt wriggled the bud in gently, holding back a gasp as his fingers accidently brushed a soft lock of dark-brown hair.

_Burying my hands into it as I ride that hot ass…_

He tucked the parka back into place and pushed the bud into his own right ear. “Now…okay.” He pulled the iPad Switchr out of its pocket near his neck and swirled through his playlists to the appropriate album. Damn, he loved living in the future; this little baby gave him access to all his tunes without him having to yank his iPad out of its comfy little nest near his right thigh. Hermann looked dubious as the harp strains began.

“Just trust me.” Newt rubbed his shoulder.

Hermann’s expression remained uncertain for the first thirty seconds or so, as if he were expecting a sudden explosion of electric guitars or death-metal screaming. And well, that _was_ Newt’s bad, ultimately, for meeting exactly that expectation no less than twelve times before today—but when the harp bloomed into the peal of church bells, his look of doubt melted into wonder.

“Oh. Oh my,” he whispered. “Newton…what is this?”

“Ohh,” Newt chirped, “juuuuust a little French-Canadian musical from 1998 called _Notre-Dame de Paris_.” He flashed him a grin. “Old school. Well, kinda. I mean, you were only nine when it debuted and all…”

“But I don’t understand. Surely…from that decade…I know the Western musicals of the 1990s very well. Particularly European ones.”

Newt shrugged. “Nice to learn about a new thing, huh? Oh, you’ll like this: I even downloaded it legally.”

Hermann closed his eyes. Typically, when joy stumbled into Hermann Gottlieb, it fought a pitched battle against him wherein Hermann’s face served as the theatre of war, and joy usually lost. But not today; the rare smile that softened Hermann’s wide mouth also lifted the furrow from his brow and smudged the crow’s feet from the corners of his eyes. He didn’t look younger, not necessarily, but his face looked right. Peaceful, Newt mused, but no, something beyond peaceful …well, beatific was cliché, but…

_I wonder if this is what moved people to build cathedrals…_

The song concluded in soaring fire, and Hermann’s dark eyes opened. They were shiny, but not from sorrow. “What a lovely present, Newton. Thank you,” he whispered as his fingers strayed to the Pause button.

“Uh, yeah, that’s me…Mr. Lovely Present,” Newt trilled. Babbling. He was babbling. Those eyes were fucking lethal weapons. “Uh. Um. Anyway. I…you know I don’t speak French, I mean aside from the fact it’s kind of like Spanish but not because it’s a romance language, so I didn’t understand it too well. Did you understand it?”

_Shut up, Newt. God._

Hermann chuckled; Newt hoped he wasn’t too amused by his flailing. “Yes, but not perfectly. I did study French in Gymnasium. I cannot, for example, read Victor Hugo untranslated into either English or German—though I have endeavored many times.”

“So it’s pretty faithful to the book, right? I mean, so far? Like _Les Miserables_ faithful?” Newt had met some die-hard Miz faces during his life, but Hermann was fussier with his Victor Hugo than all of them combined.

“Aside from the late twentieth century millennialism?” Hermann smiled. “Yes. And that is hardly a problem, Newton. I am not opposed to adaptation that remains true to Hugo’s vision. Please…may we hear more?”

“Dude, totally!” Newt punched the Play button and frowned when the music didn’t start. He punched it again and swore when the damn thing told him to plug in his iPad battery before it switched off.

“Uh….” He gave Hermann a sheepish look.

And just like that, beatific Hermann left and everyday asshole Hermann returned. “You forgot to charge it, didn’t you?” he said flatly.

“Uh, that’s me,” Newt said. “Mr….uh…Chargers Are For…”

Hermann shook his head like an impatient schoolteacher. “Oh, never mind. I suppose it is the thought that matters, as they say.”

“Yeah! The thought!” Newt agreed as Hermann shook his head again. He unzipped his jacket and dug in an upper pocket. “So. Kick your ass in Trivial Pursuit instead?”

 

***

Half an hour and three arguments about _Game of Thrones_ , _Star Trek_ , and _Doctor Who_ in that order—all of which Newt won, and fuck you _very_ much, Hermann!—the ferry docked at the station conveniently named “Shatterdome.” After gathering up their things—and thwarting Hermann’s attempt to pitch the travel edition of _Trivial Pursuit_ overboard—Newt walked down the ramp with Hermann clipping along at his side, left arm wrapped through his right.

“If you embarrass me in front of our host, Newton, heaven help me, but I will—”

“Whatever, Hermann. You just can’t handle being wrong about anything.”

“I am European, Newton. You, though you retain dual citizenship, are for all intents and purposes American.”

“So that means you automagically know more about _Doctor Who_? Dude.” Newt gestured with his free hand at his pants. “Who’s wearing those super sexy Twelfth Doctor pants again?”

“I tell you, there was no companion named Adam!”

Newt rolled his eyes. Yeah, Hermann was a sex bomb, but he was also a dick. And pitching him into the ocean was sounding pretty good right about now. “Oh my God. You skipped Nine, didn’t you?”

“ _What._ ”

“You totally did, man! You totally skipped the Ninth Doctor’s series! If you hadn’t, you’d know that Adam was—”

“Oh, confound it,” Hermann snapped, “really, all this fuss over a ridiculous television program and a game.”

Newt laughed. “Oh, so it’s a matter of cultural pride when you think you’re right, but _now_ that you know you’re wrong it’s suddenly a—” he clipped his accent into something resembling Hermann’s—“ _ridiculous television program and—_ ”

Hermann stopped walking, nearly tripping him.

“Hermann, what the he—”

“Stop carrying on,” Hermann hissed as he gestured with his cane. “We’ve company.”

A young woman stood near the station’s exit, holding a sign that read “Welcome, Drs. Geiszler and Gottlieb!” She looked to be about seventeen, with dark-brown hair, golden skin, and apple-like cheeks that reminded Newt a little of Kris. She stood near a compact car that seemed to be designed for navigating the narrow streets of the nearby bone slum. Her smile suddenly broadened and she waved to them.

Hermann nodded and smiled back as he lowered his cane. “Don’t embarrass us, Newton,” he murmured through his teeth. “But most importantly, don’t embarrass our host or this charming young lady. We’ll discuss this later.”

“You suck, Hermann,” Newt rejoined, but he did so with a smile and a wave to the young lady in question. Hermann was right; she didn’t need to hear this shit.

“Dr. Geiszler and Dr. Gottlieb?” the young woman asked in heavily accented English as they approached.

“Yes,” Hermann said before Newt could speak up.

“I am Li-Ann Tang,” she said, bowing. “Mr. Tang’s granddaughter. He regrets that he could not meet you himself, but has asked me to drive you to the restaurant. It is an honor to meet you.”

Hermann returned the bow. “And truly an honor to meet you,” he said in Cantonese.

Li-Ann’s smile softened and lit up a few more kilowatts. “You speak Cantonese, Dr. Gottlieb?”

“Yes. Fluently.”

“But I don’t. Not well,” Newt interjected in the same language. “Sorry, but Dr. Gottlieb must translate for me.”

Li-Ann nodded. “Your Cantonese is not bad, though, Dr. Geiszler.”

He grinned. “That’s nice of you, Ms. Tang. But it’s limited.”

They had decided, long ago, to split up language duty to save time, aggravation, and, of course, to not be Those Guys who insisted on English wherever they went. Newt already had a solid grasp of Japanese from years of being a voracious manga reader, and having lived in America most of his life, Spanish wasn’t much of a stretch—though sometimes dialects could be tricky to figure out. Hermann had mastered Cantonese before joining the PPDC to prove both his commitment and his indispensability—that and he was a Hermione Granger-style know-it-all, but then, so was Newt, so he wasn’t complaining. Hermann also handled Russian, though they both admitted it was usually best for him to use an interpreter, especially when speaking to Russia’s now-disbanded J-Sci division.

There was only so much you could learn by your mid-thirties; even if you were a pair of awesome super-geniuses.

“If you will follow me, please?” Li-Ann said as she gestured to the compact car.

“How very thoughtful of you,” Hermann said with a smile as Newt climbed into the back and Li-Ann opened the passenger-side door for him. “Thank you for driving us.”

As Newt had kind of expected, Li-Ann was also a Geiszler-Gottlieb groupie—though given the grins she kept shooting Hermann, it was probably more like Gottlieb-Geiszler. Maybe that was because Newt kept catching words about calculus and theoretical math in the conversation. Or maybe it was because Hermann just seemed to be a different person around anyone under twenty or so, or anyone he somehow identified as a student—softer, more indulgent, serious still, but encouraging and patient and, most of all, honest. Maybe the fact that he treated kids like they were actual human beings and not animals that had somehow learned to talk and walk upright was part of his charm.

Newt turned to the window and watched the streets pass in a rainy haze of neon and slick darkness. _How awesome would it be to have a kid with Hermann?_ he thought. _I mean. I am so not dad material. But if I was, damn. We would have the most awesome daughter ever. She’d speak, like, seventeen languages and build rockets and totally play in an awesome Goth band, and Hermann would yell at her all the time for liking me best._ But he knew that wasn’t true. There were currently five Catholic families in the Shatterdome who had children with them—mostly by necessity rather than choice. Hermann was the only one willing to teach them CCD.

_He seriously has the patience of a saint._

Kowloon and the surrounding areas had been flattened pretty badly by the first Kaiju that made landfall in China in 2016, before Jin and his brothers had joined up to kick monster ass. But in the decade since, people had rebuilt the districts a little farther from the water and a lot more underground. Was it stupid? Maybe; then again, Hong Kong wasn’t like California where you could just move a hundred miles inland or to another state. Also, people had lots of ways to say fuck you to the Kaiju, and not all of them were the smartest. Newt caressed the sleeve of his jacket that hid his tattoos.

Wisteria was an unusual building in this neighborhood—a full story aboveground with a flat roof and what must have been at least a thousand strands of lilac-colored fairy lights hanging from the eaves to simulate the flower; a lilac fluorescent sign mounted above the door proclaimed the restaurant’s name in spindly Mistral-like font, in both English and Cantonese.

“How beautiful,” Hermann said in Cantonese.

“Thank you,” Li-Ann said as she pulled the car into Park. Newt was thankful that she had switched back to English. “My big sister, Lin, is the architect and designer. You could say this is a three-generation-owned business. My oldest sister Jun is the sous chef, my father is head chef, and my little sister, Mai, will be your waitress. I am hostess.”

Newt wondered about Li-Ann’s mother. A hard little wand stirred in his stomach seconds before Li-Ann said, “Wisteria was my mother’s dream, but she died in the Kowloon Kaiju attack before we could open.”

“I am so sorry, Ms. Tang,” Hermann said gently.

Li-Ann smiled at him. “Thank you, Dr. Gottlieb. I was very young then. Just nine. It is nice to have this restaurant to remember her by, because my own memories are sometimes not very clear.”

The little wand stirred harder, like it always did when Newt wasn’t sure if he should let someone be sad or if he should try to change the subject. He looked at Hermann. Over the years, he’d learned the hard way to let his partner handle decisions like that. He just got people better, which was weird, since he was usually such an iceberg to everyone, but then again, kids also seemed to really like him, so….

Yeah, that was Hermann, all right. An enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in a paradox wrapped in a contradiction and shoved into a sexy suit.

And now was not the time to be imagining peeling it off him to look at all those puzzles and contradictions and stuff.

Apparently, Hermann thought a subject change was in order. “Will you tell me about the restaurant, Ms. Tang? Your website is very informative, but surely you can’t have fit everything onto it. Why, for example, did you choose the name Wisteria?”

Li-Ann smiled softly. “When she was my age, Mother visited Japan for the first time, to see the Sakura bloom. She was, though, more—attracted? Interested! Interested in the large wisteria in Ashikaga Flower Park. She spent many hours painting it—some of her work you will see inside. It was her favorite flower.”

Newt had no idea why that would cheer someone up, but for some reason, Li-Ann looked happy now. “Come,” she said in Cantonese as she took Hermann’s arm again, “I will show you inside.”

The interior was just as beautiful as the outside, all done up in elegant shades of eggplant and lilac streaked with silver and gold. An older man stood in front of the hostess’ station, which stood to the left of the staircase leading down into what must have been the restaurant itself. He had salt-and-pepper hair in the process of washing into a salt flat, and Li-Ann’s apple cheeks and lively dark eyes.

“Ah, Drs. Gottlieb and Geiszler!” he exclaimed as he stepped forward and clasped Newt’s hand, then Hermann’s. “Welcome! I am Daniel Tang. It is an honor to serve you tonight. I am a great admirer of your work, as I am sure Marshal Pentecost told you.” His accent was somewhat less pronounced than his granddaughter’s and carried more than a hint of a Midwestern drawl. Newt wondered if Mr. Tang had grown up or at least learned English somewhere in the States.

“We are likewise honored to be here,” Hermann said, bowing. “And we similarly admire your restaurant.”

“Yeah—yes,” Newt agreed, following suit. “Dr. Gottlieb just loves his dim sum!”

God. Wherever he went, he just screamed Ugly American. Best to just let Hermann the cosmopolitan European do the talking.

He had more important things to think about, anyway. Like how he was going to make this night end awesomely—and with Hermann in bed with him.

But if Tang thought he was an Ugly American, he didn’t show it. “I’m particularly interested in your work, Dr. Geiszler,” he said. “I am also a graduate of MIT, where I too studied biology—though only as an undergraduate, and far before your time, I’m afraid.”

Ahah! Bingo. “Wow, no way! What a coincidence!” Newt grinned as he clasped the man’s hand again. Common ground was going to make this a whole lot easier. “And please, call me Newt. Only my mom and Dr. Gottlieb say Dr. Geiszler. Hey, were you there when they put up the PEI Toilet hack?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Hermann’s mouth twitch.

_Shit. Ugly, Ugly American doing ugly things like saying ‘toilet.’_

But Tang laughed. “I’m afraid that was a bit after my time, Newt. Though I did get up to plenty of mischief in between dissertations. Surely you remember the magic/more magic switch?”

Newt felt the dinner plates bulge behind his glasses again. “No shi—“Something thin and hard that felt a lot like Hermann’s cane slapped his shin. “No really,” he corrected. “That was you!”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Tang said with a wink. “But that is a favorite of yours, yes?”

Hermann’s cheeks were spotting with embarrassed red; Newt knew without even looking. The story of the MIT computer with an unusually labeled switch that was apparently powered by alchemy instead of any known laws of physics was the crux of the most infamous segment of the 2018 BBC interview that had made Tang a Geiszler-Gottlieb groupie.

Well, him and a lot of other people.

Hermann hadn’t wanted to do it. He hated pop journalists, he hated twenty-four-hour news cycles, and most of all he hated answering questions for the sake of entertainment for willful insomniacs rather than to provide general information or to sate curiosity. Worse, he also hated late night TV “news shows that exist only for mucking about, not telling real stories.” He had barely changed his mind when their superiors in San Francisco had ordered him to speak with the BBC or lose his lab space to Newt’s staff. Newt, of course, had been his typical self—excited to visit London with Hermann and excited to tell the world about K-Sci in a way that would make it accessible, sexy, _rock star_.

“Here’s the best way to explain what we do, Ilene,” he’d said to the interviewer of the short-lived Colbert imitator _UK Update_ —who he’d totally wanted to bang before Hermann fucked everything up. “A few decades ago at MIT, my alma matter, someone rigged up a computer with a switch that had two positions: ‘magic’ and ‘more magic.’ Whenever they flipped the switch to ‘magic,’ the computer cashed, even though the switch was only connected with one wire, and as _everyone_ knows, it shouldn’t have been able to do anything without two.”

Hermann had stomped on his foot then; he’d ignored it.

“K-Science is a bit like that switch; it’s new, it’s cutting edge, so it kinda looks like we’re doing magic. But the reality is we’re—”

“Are you absolutely serious?”

“Yes, Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt had said, turning to look at his fuming colleague. Hoping his face was angled away from the camera, he had given him his _Dude, what?_ look. But of course, Hermann had ignored it like the asshole he was.

“You are recounting an urban legend promulgated on UseNet at least a decade before your birth to explain vital work as if it were some shaggy dog story!”

“Oh, excuse me, Dr. Bore. Not all of us have your duende or your skill at euthanizing an audience with a chalkboard.”

“My examples are succinct and on point, _Dr._ Geiszler! Which is far more than I can say for your annecdata!”

And then Newt had said it. The phrase that became a meme overnight. The phrase that launched a thousand gif sets, parody videos, remixes, and t-shirts.

“Dude! My annecdata is awesome! My annecdata flushes your data down the toilet! Psssshhhh!” 

Complete with whirly potty noise and spinning in his chair, and followed by the second most popular meme of 2018 from Hermann:

“You, sir, are a baby! A giant baby at play with your genetic tinker toys! This is not nursery school, Doctor! This is war!”

And, well, things had gone progressively downhill from there. The producers, meanwhile, had kept the cameras rolling long after they began throwing sugar cubes from the tea service at each other.

PPDC brass had not been amused—until, of course, interest in their scientists’ antics had yielded them some very needed donations from millions of people with internet connections and weird senses of humor. But Hermann hadn’t spoken to him for a week, and had definitely spiked his coffee with dish soap on at least one occasion. And judging by the way he was politely glaring at him now, seven years had done nothing to dull his frustration or embarrassment.

Newt almost felt sorry for him. But really, he was the one who’d picked a fight on international TV, so his pity was limited.

“Oh…you saw that interview, I see, Dr. Tang.”

Okay. Fuck. Hermann’s crestfallen expression was totally ruining his gloating.

“Oh, Dr. Gottlieb, don’t worry!” Tang said with a smile. “I don’t think any less of you for it! As a matter of fact, it was that interview that first drew me to your work—which I believe to be the most important and innovative work in any scientific field today. And may I say, even we scientists need to laugh at ourselves sometimes. And the world needs a little more magic these days, wouldn’t you agree?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him for years,” Newt said in an exaggerated stage whisper.

“Please, Dr. Gottlieb,” Tang said as Hermann gritted his teeth. “I invited you both here because I admire you for who you are, not because I wanted you to perform for me. Please, be yourselves tonight. Consider my family your family.”

“Oh thank God,” Newt said with a grin. “One more minute of calling Hermann here ‘Dr. Gottlieb,’ and I was gonna hit the ceiling. So, we go down here for the dim sum?” He gestured at the staircase. “I’m starving!”

Hermann facepalmed. Actually facepalmed. Li-Ann covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

“Yes, that’s right.” Tang looked pleased as he gestured to the door. “Li-Ann? Will you show our guests their table?”

Wisteria looked even better downstairs. The same eggplant walls shot through with veins of gold and silver continued unbroken from the parlor to the staircase and into the large room below. The same wisteria-colored fairy lights hung over the top of the bar, which was stocked with more fancy wines than Newt could name and probably had plenty of awesome beers out of sight too—not that they’d be appreciating them too much. Unlike every other Bavarian in the history of the world, Hermann only drank beer on special occasions, and Newt sure as hell wasn’t going to have more than one beer with all this nervousness and bullshit rattling around in his head. Rich amber lighting complemented the purples and dark wood furniture that looked like mahogany, making the entire restaurant look both classy and original—not like it was trying too hard to impress, or even to be all that Western aside from the bar. And of course, there were the framed paintings of wisteria by Li-Ann’s mother, which Newt would not have been surprised to see hanging in a gallery.

Things were also pretty quiet for a Saturday. Only one table was occupied—by a man and two little boys.

“My brother-in-law and my nephews,” Li-Ann explained as she pulled Hermann’s chair out for him. “Zhi Peng is also a great admirer of you work; he is a professor of marine biology at the university too. Grandfather did not want either of you to feel nervous with too many people, so he closed the restaurant for tonight.”

“Wow, thank you so much,” Newt said before Hermann could give himself a verbal black eye over someone doing something kind for him. “I mean, we wouldn’t have minded company, but that was super thoughtful!”

Li-Ann giggled. “Grandfather really just wants to spend time with you instead of customers,” she whispered before slipping away into what Newt presumed to be the kitchen.

“Gee, Hermann,” Newt said as he picked up the tea pot and angled the spout over his cup. “Seems we’ve got a whole family of groupies!”

“Really, I-I do feel rather as if we’ve put them out,” Hermann said as he pushed his own cup to Newt to fill.

“Baby, don’t worry. Dr. Tang didn’t do anything he didn’t want to, okay?”

Hermann nodded, not looking convinced.

“Here.” Newt placed the tiny cup back in front of him. “This smells like oolong or something. Have a cup and try to relax.”

_God knows, I can’t_ he thought as he held the menu up to his face. As he flipped to the dim sum offerings, he rehearsed what the guild had tried to help him work out the night before—a perfect “let’s you and me fuck” speech, or as Mako had more delicately called it a “love confession.”

Well, “help” in the loose sense of the word, anyway.

***

“Oh, Newton! I love you,” Jin cooed. “I love your Kaiju tattoos and your manly tummy and your wardrobe of sexy vintage _Jurassic Park_ T-shirts. Please make sweet, sweet love to me against my chalkboard. And leave your hipster glasses on!” 

“Get off my lap, Jin.”

Instead of listening, Jin just gave him a Bugs Bunny kiss and tried to lick his ear. Groaning, Newt opened his legs and tipped him to the floor.

“Owwwww,” Jin laughed. “Damn you, Geiszler! That’s a million-dollar butt you just broke! I need my butt to save the world! The fate of humanity rests on my butt!”

Newt rolled his eyes. “Can someone who isn’t a freak please be Hermann?” he asked.

Aleksis raised his hand, grinning enthusiastically. And really, he did well. He had Hermann’s scowl down to a T, and he actually said some things that Hermann probably would say if—no, no, not _if_ , _when_ —Newt finally asked him to start dating him. Things like, “But we have our work to think of!” and “What if I do not think of you as a boyfriend?” And “Sasha, word I am look for here is ‘chalkboard’, yes?”

Okay, maybe not that last one.

But after a while Sasha’s periodic intermissions to translate or to help her husband master a new word began to make this feel less like a conversation about relationship stuff and more like a scene from some twisted ESL video.

“I think you should give him chocolate,” Mako had offered. “That is a good way to start. Be gentle, subtle. He will understand.”

“I still think you should just ask if he’d feel better if you two fucked,” Jin said from the floor, from which he still hadn’t risen for reasons that probably didn’t even make sense to him. “Ow, watch the butt!” he yelled five seconds later, when Newt kicked him in it.

“Guys, I really appreciate this—well, mostly,” he said with a glare down at Jin. “But I don’t know if it’s working. I mean, we can kind of predict what Hermann would say, but not really. God, it’s like we have no controls and everything’s a damn variable!” He dug his hands into his hair. “Shit. This really does feel like freshman year all over again! I did the same thing with my roommates when I wanted to ask this girl in marine biology out my first year at MIT. Spoilers: she said no.”

“Yeah, I agree,” Tendo said. “This is pretty ineffective, Newt.”

“Huh?”

“You thought it would help, so we did it for you,” Sasha said with a small shrug. “It was what you wanted.”

Newt moaned and covered his face with a pillow. When someone tapped him on the shoulder he pushed it down harder against his face. “Go ’way. I’m trying to die here.”

A gentle hand had removed it, though, and then shook his shoulder until he opened his eyes on Raleigh’s concerned face. The new guy had watched them all thoughtfully throughout the entire fiasco, not saying a word, not cracking a smile. And yet, it somehow wasn’t creepy at all. Newt wondered how he did it.

“Newt,” he said. “Tell me something, okay?”

“Uh…sure?”

“If you knew Dr. Gottlieb wouldn’t turn you down, if you knew you had nothing to lose by asking him, what would you tell him?”

“Uh, but the problem is I don’t know that…”

“Just pretend with me? Humor me?”

Newt wanted to shake his head, but something about Raleigh was just so genuine, he couldn’t. He sighed, removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, replaced them. “Hermann…here’s the thing. I’m not…. Raleigh, I really don’t—”

“Newt.” Raleigh gently squeezed his shoulder. “Just say it to me.”

Newt downed another doughnut for courage and tried again. “Hermann, it’s like this. We’ve been living together for pretty much all our adult lives—the real one, I mean; for us, adulthood pretty much started before we hit puberty, but that’s not what I’m talking about now. We share a lab. We share a room. We hold hands sometimes at lunch and dinner, and we do everything together.” He left out the parts about his panic attacks and Hermann’s pain days—somehow, that just seemed too personal even for his best friends. “Hell, Raleigh even thought we were married, and now I’m thinking he isn’t the only one.”

Raleigh smiled, and his shoulders moved with a soft chuckle.

“And you know what? I looked at all my photo albums the other day. You want to know what I saw in there? Uh, aside from the guild stuff and work stuff, I mean? It was us, Hermann. Us in San Francisco. Us in Lima. Us in Hong Kong and Vladivostok and Mexico City and Sydney and Anchorage and Washington. Us in cafés and museums and drinking tea, and a lot of you looking just…just like everything I’ve ever wanted.” He rubbed at his eyes again. “I don’t know what to call it or what it’s become over the years, but there’s an us whether or not we want an us, and even if we haven’t named it. And if we were anybody else but you and me, don’t you think we’d have figured out what this meant by now? Or at least tried?”

Newt looked down at his knees and bit his lip as his cheeks warmed.

“That’s what I’d tell him,” he said softly.

When he looked up, everyone was staring at him in silence, even Jin.

“Yeah,” Raleigh said softly. “I think you know what to do.”

***

Raleigh had made it all sound so easy. Only now, he wasn’t here and Newt wasn’t there, and Hermann was Hermann, not something assured like the law of gravity, and Hermann was sitting across from him looking gorgeous and brilliant and all sorts of superlatives.

And the evening wasn’t getting any younger.

“Newton, look. Isn’t this lovely?” Hermann had his sexy reading glasses on, and his eyes were practically eating the laminated page he held in his shaking hands. “Steamed bean curd with ginger and spring onions. Vegetarian dumplings with shiitaki mushrooms in chili sauce. House special golden custard!”

“Yeah…really lovely. You know what you’re gonna get from the cart yet?”

Hermann shook his head. “Everything looks delicious. But I don’t want to take too much. It would be the soul of ungraciousness to leave anything uneaten.”

“Pffft! Relax. You heard the good doctor. He wants us to be _us_! I doubt he cares if you leave a few dumplings here and there or something.”

“I am not one to waste food, Newton,” Hermann said archly.

The cart arrived then, cutting off any further conversation—or arguments. It was pushed by a plump girl who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, whose face shape identified her as Li-Ann’s little sister, Mai.

“Dim sum?” she asked. Hermann said yes to a fistful of the vegetarian options, while Newt started with steamed pork dumplings and scallops, barbecue pork dumplings, and—well, in the end he’d taken pretty much every pork offering off the cart.

So what if his metabolism would hate him later? Hermann probably liked a bit of meat on his guys.

Maybe? Hopefully. He knew Hermann liked guys at least. And pretty much everything else. But they’d only really ever talked about their sexual orientations once before Hermann declared it a closed subject. Then again, that was in 2016, when Newt was a lot younger and more obnoxious, so maybe he should ask now.

“Uh, Hermann?”

Hermann looked up from his custard. “Yes?”

“Uh….” Shit. Shit. The words were right on his tongue, but they kept trying to come out all buttery. Maybe he needed some beer first.

“Can you pass the kimchi, please?”

The beer was an awesome microbrew from one of the many little places that had sprouted up just outside Kowloon back when Hong Kong’s economy was floundering after Reckoner’s attack in 2016. Newt tried his best to enjoy the flavor as he rehearsed what he’d said to Raleigh the night before. But the words kept getting jumbled up and stuck behind his heart or in his lungs.

 _Maybe this isn’t a good place_ , Newt thought as he took a swallow of the rosy-tasting beer. _If he’s upset, there’s this whole family around that he’s already feeling guilty about inconveniencing, and he can’t go anywhere to escape. The ferry home. I’ll tell him then. That way, he’s only got to deal with me for half an hour or something. Yeah. After dinner. On the way back._

The coil in his stomach released just a bit.

“So,” he said a bit too loudly. “Dim sum, huh?”

“Oh do stop shouting, Newton,” Hermann grumbled. “Just because the estimable Dr. Tang has given you leave to behave like a buffoon does not mean I have.”

Newt rolled his eyes and discretely flipped him off. Only from Hermann would that sound romantic.

Throughout the meal, several members of Tang’s family stopped by to ask how they were enjoying the food or if they needed anything. Needing some more liquid courage, Newt asked for a second and then a third beer while Hermann kept packing away the jasmine oolong tea like it was about to be criminalized. After a desert of osmanthus pudding for Hermann (and mango for Newt who drew the line at anything that wasn’t guaranteed to be sugary), Tang and his family had slowly filtered in to talk shop. Zhi Peng had wanted to know all about the Breach and the latest advancements in Kaiju detection, and for two seven-year-olds, his kids were pretty well-behaved—and absolutely fascinated by the big monsters that could very well kill them.

Newt knew the feeling well.

“No, we’re not really sure what they eat,” he told them both at one point. “I haven’t actually ever studied a Kaiju stomach, you know? But I’m guessing they eat animals that live in the oceans if they get hungry on their way to land.”

“Like sharks?” Gang asked. “We sometimes have shark fin here, but it’s made out of bean curd.”

“He means mock shark-fin soup,” Zhi Peng explained before his other son, Jie, asked if Kaiju also ate whales.

“Well, they’re probably about the only really big things in the ocean to be worth their time,” Newt admitted. “But my guess is they probably don’t like eating out too much.”

“What kinds of animals do you think their world has, Dr. Geiszler?” Jie asked.

It was a really, really good question, and Newt told the little boy so. “We haven’t gone to their world yet, so we can only really guess.”

“Is that like making a hypothesis?” Gang asked.

“Not quite, Gang,” Zhi Peng corrected him. “You remember, a scientific hypothesis is something that can be tested. Since we can’t go to their world, we can’t do that.”

“That’s right. But…you want to hear an unscientific hypothesis?” Newt asked, leaning in.

Eyes wide, Gang leaned in too.

“I think they probably have some of the things we do—or animals like ours. Like amphibians and reptiles. And maybe birds. Has your dad told you that birds and reptiles have a lot of things in common?”

As the boys nodded, Newt cut his gaze across the table to Hermann. Though Tang himself moved from conversation to conversation with the skill of a born host, Newt could tell that Hermann’s world of numbers and theories and code was definitely more his thing. It sure was Li-Ann’s. She’d been hanging on Hermann’s every word for the last ninety minutes, and from what Newt could glean from their rapid-fire Cantonese, it seemed she wanted to study mathematics at university—preferably the one he’d attended.

 _Yup_ , he thought as Li-Ann brought out a pad and started showing off equations, _Hermann Gottlieb’s got a groupie whether he likes it or not._ It was sweet, really, watching Hermann be a mentor, watching the light behind his eyes as he looked over his hostess’s math, offering what Newt guessed were corrections and questions in the gentlest tone he’d ever heard him use.

_A Gottlieb-Geiszler daughter really would take over the world._

Before Newt knew it, it was 22:30, and time to head back to the ferry unless they really wanted to be stranded. As Li-Ann led Hermann upstairs and Zhi Peng ushered the kids along behind them, Tang shook Newt’s hand. 

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Geiszler. You truly have honored me tonight.”

“Nah, Dr. Tang,” Newt said as he shook back, “it was our honor to be here—and you know I’m not bullshitting you because I used the word ‘bullshitting.’”

Tang laughed, but then his expression grew serious as he released his grip. “I don’t mean to be personal here, Newt, but…you really should tell him.”

Suddenly, all that beer wanted to find the nearest exit and fast. Newt gulped. “Um...sorry, I’m not—”

“Dr. Gottlieb,” Tang said gently. “It is very clear to me and, indeed, to many of your admirers that you are deeply in love with him.”

Newt wondered if he was blushing all the way down to his toes. “Oh,” he squeaked. “It is?”

Tang shook his head. “I am sorry, Newt. I do not mean to cause you or Dr. Gottlieb embarrassment, and I do not mean to be rude, but you have been you honest selves with me tonight, and I admire and care for you both too much not to be my honest self to you. I believe Dr. Gottlieb may feel the same, but he seems to have trouble being free with his emotions. I think, had I gone through what he has at such a young age, I would be much the same.”

“Yeah,” Newt said, because it seemed the only thing he could. “But, that’s kind of the problem…I don’t really know how to tell him.”

Tang tapped his own breast with two fingers. “You have a huge heart, Newt. As big as the Kaiju you are trying to save the world from. It would do you good to let it be honest with him, as you were honest with my family tonight. I think you know what to say.”

Newt nodded. “Thanks, Dr. Tang—”

“Daniel, please.”

“Daniel.” Newt’s smile was wavery, but he managed one anyway. “Thanks. For everything.”

He nodded. “I was frightened when I asked Mai—my granddaughter’s namesake—to marry me many years ago. That little terror was over soon—but so is life, Newt. And these days, life has never been more fragile or less guaranteed. Tell him soon, please? Humor an old man. And let me know when I may cater your wedding.”

***

A chill breeze blew through Newt’s hair as the ferry station receded in the distance. The lights of Hong Kong shimmered against the night. So many tiny bulbs and tiny fibers to keep back the darkness, and so, so much darkness.

 _Fragile_ , he thought as he stared across the water. 

_No claws or armor. Skins thinner than paper. Only a few curvy bones protecting our guts from death. Water with amino acids and attitude. How have we managed to survive so long?_

“Newton…”

“Hm?” He turned at the sound of Hermann’s voice and shook off his thoughts. “What’s up, Hermann? You cold?” He shifted in closer and felt his heartbeat kick up as Hermann did the same.

“Yes, but…that isn’t it. Newton, that family back there….” Hermann inclined his head at the black water.

“Yeah?” Newt rubbed his hand along Hermann’s arm.

“I can’t stop thinking about them. That wonderful grandfather, those beautiful great-grandchildren. That remarkable young woman—you were right, you know. It seems I do have a groupie. I am, apparently, her hero.”

Newt chuckled softly, even though he had the feeling Hermann was about to say something he wouldn’t like. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Being somebody’s rock star.”

Hermann was silent for so long that Newt wondered if he were falling asleep. “It reminds me of just how much is at stake,” he said at last. “How vital our work is. Newton…I do not wish at all to belittle any of our colleagues, lest of all that of our phenomenal Jaeger pilots, but it is science that gave them machines. Science that determines what part of a Kaiju is the weakest and most vulnerable. Science that has saved entire cities from the effects of Kaiju Blue.”

“Hermann—”

“No. Please. Let me finish. It is we, Newton, who stand between the Kaiju and an entire planet filled with wonderful families such as Dr. Tang’s. And with all of our scientists scattered to the four winds and my father—” He took in a shuddering breath. “And my father all too happy to place profit and prestige before people, we, you and I, are truly the last—”

Newt didn’t let him finish. Suddenly, the entire speech he’d rehearsed no longer made sense. Suddenly, nothing made sense but the man trembling next to him and the huge, fragile, frightened world he kept trying and trying to hold on his shoulders.

“Shhh,” he whispered. Then, pulling Hermann against his body, he covered his mouth with his lips.

For a moment, Hermann was as still as a block of ice in his arms. And then slowly, Newt felt shaking hands slide up his back and pull him closer. A flick of his tongue parted Hermann’s lips, and Newt sucked the pout into his own mouth. Dim sum and jasmine and Hermann and— fuck. Fuck.

_Shit!_

Newt pulled his head back so quickly Hermann’s nose smacked his glasses and knocked them askew.

“Sorry!” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I—I—I—I—”

He couldn’t look Hermann in the eye. Couldn’t bear to see the shock and anger.

He braced himself for Hermann to punch him in the face or, worse, to tell him to fuck off and never look at him again.

“It’s quite all right, Newton.”

“Huh?” Newt ‘s neck popped as he swung his head back in Hermann’s direction. Hermann looked flushed and a bit dazed but otherwise fine, though his eyes were glossy in the ferry’s dim halogen lights.

“It has been a very emotional few weeks,” Hermann said as he ran his hands up and down Newt’s back. “For both of us.”

 _No,_ fuck _emotional! I love you, and I’ve always loved you, and apparently half the world knows it, and I want to do that and more with you and your stupid, beautiful mouth every day for the rest of my life!_

The words beat against his lips, but Newt couldn’t make them become speech. It was like trying to translate English into Cantonese; he knew what he wanted to say, but he just couldn’t do it. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Emotional night. Bad start to the year. But, hey! It calmed you down, right?”

“Well, certainly better than a slap would have,” Hermann said on a chuckle. And then his head lowered to Newt’s shoulder. “I’m freezing, Newton. Please hold me.”

“Okay, dude.” Newt drew him close again, tucking his head on top of Hermann’s. “Okay.”

He didn’t let himself think again until the lights of the Shatterdome’s dock blinded him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swiggitty swow, it's Hannibal fucking Chau!

(Two weeks previously.

Friday evening.)

The bone slum was wet, crowded, and Jacobean. Yes, Hermann decided as he exited the tiny cab and handed over his fare. ‘Jacobean’ was a perfect word for a district being watched over by leviathan ribcages, vertebrae, and the odd femur-like bone. Frankly, he didn’t even want to look at the incisors that formed the lintel of what appeared to be an all-night discotheque across the street, or the skull that some fools had turned into a temple to honor Brouhaha or whatever its owner had been called.

“Shine the luma lamp upon every surface that you see until you find the Rorschach-blot sigil,” Hermann muttered as he trailed the thin beam of his penlight over a nearby sawhorse. Nothing. “Then follow the arrows. Follow the secret clues. Like some ridiculous Nintendo game.”

He swept the light across the side of a building. Nothing.

Why Pentecost couldn’t have given him an address he would never understand. Black markets were, after all, corporeal, and unless this Hannibal Chau lived out of a traveling medicine wagon, surely even he had to abide by the laws of physics.

Hermann shined his beam on another sawhorse and rolled his eyes as the Kaiju-like blot finally appeared, including an arrow that told him to turn left. Shaking his head, he followed its direction, feeling very much as though he were moving down a rabbit hole with every step.

His life, after all, had only become increasingly more surreal since his meeting with Marshal Pentecost two days ago.

“You want me to parley with a gangster.”

Pentecost opened his mouth, looking as though he wanted to offer another sentence as an alternative. Then, his expression easing into thoughtfulness, he closed his lips and nodded. “I suppose we shouldn’t beat around the bush, yes.”

Hermann’s absolute respect was a bit like the Holy Grail. So far, the list of people who had glimpsed it was roughly the length of Hermann’s index finger; Stacker Pentecost was at its top. This respect, and Pentecost’s position as the Shatterdome’s commanding officer, made him loath to question the man’s orders. Only, those orders made no sense.

“Marshal Pentecost, permission to speak freely.”

“Dr. Gottlieb, you know you don’t have to ask me that.”

Hermann felt the back of his neck heat. “Sorry, sir. But what I have to say may disappoint.”

“Somehow I expected that.”

“Sir, I am neither a trained negotiator nor a fast talker. Why am I your best candidate to speak with this Chau?”

“Because he’s sent all of my trained negotiators and fast talkers back with some strong indications that he doesn’t like them very much.”

“Oh” was hardly the best response to that. But Hermann had just reminded the marshal that he wasn’t the best conversationalist. “And you think he will like me?”

“Dr. Gottlieb.” Pentecost leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “The data we now have on Hannibal Chau following these meetings indicates that he despises flattery, admires bluntness, and wants to know exactly what we intend to do with the scraps he can’t sell or smuggle. The latter narrows our candidate pool down to two, and between you and me”—his mouth twitched at one corner—“I don’t trust Dr. Geiszler not to go on a shopping spree.”

Hermann’s own mouth twitched briefly before settling back into a frown. “Are you certain that telling this man classified information is the best course?”

“If he’s going to be a collaborator, he’ll have to know sooner or later. Sooner shows good faith on our part.” When Hermann worried his lip, he leaned forward a bit more. “Dr. Gottlieb, I would not send you into the Kowloon bone slums to talk to its most dangerous crime lord if I doubted your capabilities. You are, without a doubt, one of the most capable people here for this task. The last days of war, Dr. Gottlieb, often call for us to think laterally.”

“Last days of war. Yes, well,” Hermann muttered as he slogged down an alley that stank of stale rainwater and sour garbage, “I would prefer if this were Normandy rather than the Charge of the Light Brigade.”

Another arrow glowed on the wall, this one curved as if beckoning him to round the corner. When he did, he found another rainy alleyway with neon signs in a number of languages…and an unassuming ramshackle building with some very non-unassuming men standing on its steps.

“‘Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred,’” Hermann muttered as he walked on, dodging a stagnant puddle and a cluster of giggling young women. Sure enough, a flick of his luma light revealed the Kaiju crest.

“Can I help you?” one of the toughs asked in a tone that indicated “help” probably meant “beat your skull against this pillar until you die.”

“I am looking to purchase Kaiju bone powder.” Given what it supposedly cured, only someone who really needed it would ever admit to that.

Apparently, at least one of the guards agreed. While the questioner continued to frown at Hermann, another with a curtain of black hair clinging desperately to a rapidly balding pate strode forward and took Hermann’s arm as if he were an old friend who needed to hear a particularly juicy secret _right now_.

“Come inside, my friend,” he said in an accent that wandered all the way from Italy to Shanghai. “I will get you hooked up.”

***

Kaiju bone powder. Kaiju bone powder. If Hermann never heard those three words in that particular combination again, he would never complain about Newton’s choice in music as long as he lived.

Well, not _much_.

“It is the panacea of the gods,” the weedy man insisted, practically drooling as he displayed yet another tin of the stuff. “Good for sleeping, good for digestion, good for depression, good for potency. I take it myself.” He winked; Hermann had no idea how to interpret the gesture. “If you take this in a tea or capsule, you will never have problems getting girls again with that leg.” 

He grinned expectantly, as if he’d just given Hermann the key to terrestrial happiness. 

Hermann barely fought down the urge to jump over the counter and kick him with that leg. But it wouldn’t have been worth the shattered kneecap and the resulting surgeries. Instead, he said, “Actually, I think I’ve changed my mind. Where do you keep the Kaiju livers?” 

The man blinked. “You want to buy a Kaiju liver?” 

“Yes. I’m a collector.” Not entirely a lie, either. “Would you be so kind as to show me one?” 

“Oh.” Bone Powder said, blinking owlishly behind his John Lennon glasses. “Those aren’t out here. You gotta talk to the boss for that.” 

“All right.” 

He looked at Bone Powder. The man just stared back at him, a peculiar smile quirking his mouth. 

“Have I said something amusing?” 

Bone Powder smiled. “He’s only in to VIPs, sir. You do not look like a VIP.” 

Hermann removed the card from his parka and slapped it onto the counter. “I have a red pass, sir. I think that is the only invitation I need.” 

“Ohh, feisty,” Bone Powder growled, and dear saints, was the man attempting to _flirt_ with him? “The boss, he likes feisty. Sometimes. Other times? He doesn’t like feisty.” 

“Yes, well, I don’t particularly care about your boss’s tastes in personalities. Mr. Chau, if you please.” 

Bone Powder shrugged with one shoulder and shuffled to a wall containing several drawers; along the way, Hermann noted he walked with a small limp. “Your funeral, my friend,” he said as he pushed one back into the wall. The rows split down the middle and parted, revealing shelf after shelf of—eugh—Kaiju parts in vats of preservative. 

“Thank you,” Hermann said archly, and he proceeded into the room without a backward glance. He passed the shelves and their eldritch contents without hesitation; the disgusting messes of biology held no interest for him. 

_Shopping spree, indeed. Newton would have soiled himself at the sight._

Past the shelves, the room opened into a sort of laboratory where lab-coated technicians were in the process of pulling apart even more messes. One table looked as if it contained an array of jewel-like glands; another held a length of Kaiju cuticle; at another, two technicians struggled to pin down a shrilling louse-like creature the length of Hemann’s forearm. 

Hermann curled his upper lip as he watched the segmented legs kicking the air. Revolting. 

“I beg your pardon. Excuse me?” he called out. 

A few workers turned his way, including one holding on to one of the cat-sized insects. Otherwise, his presence went unnoticed and uncontested—at least, he thought, that was what they wished him to think. 

“I am here to see Mr. Hannibal Chau,” Hermann continued. “I have been told he is in. Can someone direct me to him, please?” 

“Who’s asking?” 

Hermann turned his head toward the sound of the voice. A tall, broad man stood at a table with his back to Hermann, wearing an ostentatious crimson suit that appeared to have been designed at the height of World War II but dyed and decorated by early twenty-first century steampunks. The voice seemed to have come from him. 

“My name is Dr. Hermann Gottlieb. I am here at the bequest of Marshal Stacker Pentecost.” 

The man heaved a sigh as big as his girth and turned. “You’re looking at him, pal.” 

Hermann’s gaze raked up and down his body. Neatly trimmed beard, golden earrings, a pair of mountaineering goggles masking his eyes, the left of which appeared to be detailed by a river of a red scar. Heavy and fierce and flashy and undeniably dangerous. 

_Oh my_ , he thought as his pulse shivered in his wrists. And then he frowned. 

“Sir, if you are attempting to trick me, I have neither the time nor the patience.” 

“If I was gonna trick you, kid, I’d make it an actual trick. You want Hannibal Chau, you got him.” 

Ah, yes. Another Westerner playing upon the mystique of Orientalism and the remnants of New Age spirituality to turn a profit off things that were probably carcinogenic. How unsurprising. 

“I see. Clearly not your real name.” 

Chau—apparently—spread his arms wide. “You like it? I took it from my favorite fictional sociopath and my second-favorite Chinese knife manufacturer. I’m guessing yours just comes from your parents. German, right?” 

Hermann detested small talk, particularly when the other party did too. “I’m here on official business from the PPDC,” he said. 

“Oh boy. Here we go again,” Chau said to a woman who was approaching him. She wore a violet cheongsam and slashes of gold eyeshadow; her head seemed to have been shaved recently. “Look, kid, let me save both your time and mine here: no deal.” 

“Why not?” 

“Don’t like the terms.” 

“You haven’t even heard my terms.” 

“They any different than any other time?” 

“I—” 

Chau waved his hand to the side as if to shoo Hermann’s words away. “The government’s screwing you raw when it comes to all those Kaiju parts they promised, so you want to pay me for some prime cuts, only you want me to do it for less than I spend on toilet paper in a week. Your little operation doesn’t have enough for what I’m selling, Poindexter, now buzz off.” He turned away. 

“Well, how much can a single Kaiju part be?” Hermann asked, moving farther into the room. 

“Ain’t anyone told you, Mouthy, that if you gotta ask, you can’t afford it?” 

“That seems a moribund metaphor. Very well. What will you barter?” Hermann really hoped he wasn’t going to ask for anything that could explode. 

Hannibal swiveled again, slicing one heavy arm through the air. “You don’t have anything I want, kid! I keep telling you people, I ain’t a charity, and I don’t do military contracts! There’s no money in it, and a whole lotta hassle. Oh for Christ’s sake. I don’t have time for this shit. If Pentecost wants these things so much, you tell him to come here himself. I don’t deal with middlemen. I’m Hannibal fucking Chau!” 

Perhaps it was the strain of the day. Perhaps it was the disrespect. Perhaps it was the fact that he was wet and miserable and his left leg was starting to ache and swell from this fool’s errand. Whatever the cause, Hermann’s hand clenched around the handle of his cane and he decided that he had had enough. 

“And I am Hermann _fucking_ Gottlieb! And I do not leave when ordered.” 

The click of several pistol chambers and the clear, sharp sound of knives being unsheathed told him that Chau’s minions were ready and willing to see that he did, alive or otherwise. And though the presence of several weapons should have frightened him, it only made Hermann angrier. He had been working, around the clock, in copious sickness and in rare health, for one third of his life to save humanity—including these miserable specimens. 

How dare they? 

“No,” he growled. “Not even when you do that.” 

Hermann had never been the best judge of facial expressions, and Chau’s impenetrable mountaineering goggles made his particularly difficult to read. He supposed the gangster could have been staring in good humor or scorn, or about to laugh with either. 

“Okay, I get it. You like a more personal touch.” 

The knife was out before Hermann even heard the _shing_ of its blade, at his throat before he could gasp. 

“I like sharp things, doc. Sharp suits. Sharp shoes. And really sharp means of dealing with people who piss me off. This here’s a bailong—a butterfly knife, as people from our part of the world typically call it. I like this nasty so-and-so because it can slit your throat in a second and look fabulous while doing so. You get me?” 

Hermann’s heart banged against his throat, as if trying to get away from the cold prickle of metal. He looked into Chau’s eyes. “If you think pain and death frighten me, or that posturing and blustering will send me scurrying back to my superiors, then, Mr. Chau, you are very much mistaken.” 

Chau studied him again, and this time Hermann thought his expression looked bemused. “You know something? For a little spit of a fella, you’re packing some big, iron balls. This intrigues me.” 

“Yes, well, I’m gratified that one of us is entertained.” 

Chau barked a laugh as he sheathed his butterfly knife and returned it to his vest. “Okay, kids. You heard Hermann _fucking_ Gottlieb. No more funning around.” As the thugs lowered their weapons, their leader slipped a large arm over Hermann’s shoulders. “Step into my office, Mouthy.” 

“Thank you,” Hermann said, letting Chau shepherd him along. He was keenly aware of the other man’s arm. Heavy, large, tense—muscular. That surprised him. Chau was a mountain of a man, yes, but he hadn’t expected to feel this kind of strength in his limbs. 

The back of his neck felt warm. 

Chau lead him through a door and down a narrow, red corridor hung with mirrors and containing a few large vases from a dynasty Hermann could not identify; they were filled with golden lilies. Chau pushed the door at the end open and lead him into a large, Spartan room in more shades of red and gold. 

“You want something to drink, Doctor?” He waved a hand to the minibar that occupied half of the wall to Hermann’s right. “Name your poison. Bourbon? Gin? Vodka?” 

“No thank you. I am not in the habit of poisoning my system.” 

“Smart man.” Chau turned to his side and unstoppered a decanter of amber-colored liquid—Hermann knew little of alcohol beyond beer, so he guessed it was scotch or bourbon. “Never eat or drink the food of the underworld.” His golden rings flashed as he poured. He had thick, strong fingers, the knuckles of which bore the images of birds. They like the swallow in flight across the back of his hand were faded, as if he’d never bothered to update them. 

Hermann bit back a snort. _Newton would be apoplectic._

Okay, Doc.” Chau replaced the round, crystal stopper and crossed to his desk. “You’ve convinced me that Pentecost actually hires competent people from time to time. That shit out there? Might’ve gotten you a job offer if I didn’t think you’d turn me down.” He settled into his chair with a sigh and propped his feet up; apparently his shoes were just as meretricious as the rest of him. “What you haven’t convinced me is why I should give a damn. Now, I don’t know if you science types know much about economics, so here’s the situation: you find a way to close that breach, get the Kaiju to go bother someone else’s planet, poison them all before they reach the surface, whatever these parts’ll help you do, I lose business. For a couple years, I inflate prices to whatever the hell I want, and then nada. I’m out of a job, and all those fine people out there are out of a job. You know how many people I employ, son?” 

“Far more than you probably pay.” 

Chau chuckled and shook his head in apparent amusement. “Point is, kid. I like money. I like making money. Hell, I’d keep making money from beyond the grave if I could figure out how. So why should I let you stop me?” 

Hermann had never understood materialists; he doubted he would start doing so today. “I’ve found that profiteers similarly lack an understanding of environmental science, Mr. Chau. So I will now explain. Either we defeat the Kaiju and you and your…staff find other means of lucrative employment, or the Kaiju destroy you after the last of our Jaegers fall. And I assure you, it will be a very messy destruction, indeed.” 

“Well, when you put it like that…” Chau flashed a grin that revealed two rows of gold-plated teeth. “I still don’t care.” 

“You would truly stand aside and permit human extinction?” Hermann knew many greedy people—his father, chiefly—but none so blatant. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you under the impression that I was a nice person?” Chau raised his tumbler as if to toast Hermann and took a generous sip. 

“I was under the impression that you were an intelligent man, an opinion I am now revising. You would be included in the number of the dead. Perhaps not at first, but certainly at some point.” 

“Well, that’s a bridge I’m willing to cross when I get there.” 

No, Hermann realized. There was profound greed, and profound stupidity, but this was neither. “Now you are baiting me,” he said. 

Another gold-toothed grin. “I meant what I said about money, kid. But I know nothing lasts forever. That still doesn’t mean you can afford me, of course. But I am curious. None of you PPDC knuckleheads have ever told me exactly what you want these things for. Some nonsense about ‘That’s classified.’ I’m guessing Pentecost finally figured out that shit doesn’t fly with me, and that’s why he sent one of his K-Sci eggheads? That’s what you are, right? The ‘doctor’ and all.” 

Hermann nodded, choosing to ignore the gibe. “How much do you know about K-Science?” 

“Sonny, I may not read the scientific journals or anything, but I hack the things to pieces for a living—I _am_ K-Science.” 

Hermann supposed that was fair enough—an unorthodox estimation, but fair enough. “Have you something on which I can write? A chalkboard, ideally, but a piece of paper will do.” 

“A chalkb—” Chau shook his head. “This look like freshman biology class to you, Gottlieb?” 

“What I must illustrate is complex and will take several pages otherwise. At the very least, do you have a large piece of paper I may mount on a wall?” 

“This is beginning to feel like a whole lot of trouble,” Hannibal grumbled. “And anyway, I don’t have time for it tonight. Got Kaiju Blue to strain and purify; world may be ending, but rich brats in New York still need to bake their brains on something with Mommy and Daddy’s money, and Blu is it.” 

Hermann didn’t even try to hide his disgusted expression. The marshal must truly believe that the situation was grave to deal with scum such as this. “Then why invite me back here if you won’t let me explain?” he snapped. “ What on earth do you _want_ us to give you instead?” 

Chau tapped the tumbler down on the desk and swung his feet from it, leaning forward in one fluid motion. “I’m looking at it.” 

Well, he certainly hadn’t expected that. “I beg your pardon?” 

“I said you intrigue me, Mouthy. So here’s how it’s gonna work. You come to dinner with me next Friday and give me your little presentation. Then make me a better offer. And then we’ll see how I feel.” 

Hermann just stared at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. You want—” 

“You got any food allergies? Things you don’t like to eat? Despite appearances, I like being a good host—when I actually want to see who’s coming.” 

“But—” Hermann cleared his throat. He had an opportunity, however slim it might be; looking it in the mouth would be folly. “Very well. I accept. And if we reach an amicable agreement—” 

“Then you get all the Kaiju parts you want.” Chau’s held his large, beringed hand out across the table. 

As he took it, Hermann wondered vaguely if this was what it felt like to make a deal with the devil. 

Chau’s fingers wrapped around his and squeezed. He did not immediately let go. 

*** 

Hannibal Chau saw Gottlieb to the door and waited until he had departed in a cab before returning to his workroom. It was one thing to face down eight armed people in a fine establishment such as his; a whole other ball of shit entirely to run into them out on the street. A guy with a limp, a cane, and clothes out of some 1950s period drama screamed “outsider” just slightly softer than he did “easy prey.” And a mouthy German lying in a gutter with his nuts cut off didn’t do anyone any good. 

“Boss?” Ming asked as soon as he returned. The others had gone back to work, except for Pincushion, who was probably off somewhere huffing his third dram of Kaiju bone powder today—Hannibal made a mental note to start taking it out of his salary—but Ming knew something was up. She was good like that. Intuitive. And loyal to a fault. That’s why he paid her three times what she was worth and gave her a #1 Assistant mug each year for her birthday—they both liked irony like that. 

He nodded at her. “Get me everything there is to get on this Gottlieb,” he said. “And none of that third-party shit, either. Fucking data-traffickers always fuck everything up. I want it from the source.” 

Ming nodded and brushed a speck of lint from her violet dress. “What are you thinking about getting me in?” 

“Oh, well, now, he wants Kaiju parts so bad, let’s give him some. Some crap in storage we haven’t found a use for yet except poisoning people. Maybe from Arges or Hardscrabble. Nobody wants cat 2s anymore. His buddies’ll be too busy pissing themselves over the gift basket to wonder what’s behind it or who sent it, and Gottlieb’s too smart to say anything. You drop ’em off, do your magic, and bring me the prize.” 

Ming nodded. “It shouldn’t be too hard. They guard their science well, but everything else—piecemeal at best. Always has been. A minute alone with their HR database should do it.” 

She was looking at him expectantly. Hannibal couldn’t help but snort. 

“I don’t like that look, sister. Spill.” 

Ming raised one penciled eyebrow. “Skinny, snappy, doesn’t know when to shut up, _young_. Absolutely no social skills or dress sense. It’s like Pentecost sent you a buffet.” 

Hannibal shook his head. “That’s not his style. But the eye candy is nice. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He gets me the in I want at PPDC, I’ve got a new market to corner. He doesn’t, I dizzy him up a bit and he’s got a good story to tell his buddies about the best sex he’s ever had. Besides, I like a puzzle every now and then. And things’ve been getting dull around here ever since we sent those Yakuza bastards back to Tokyo in boxes.” 

He cracked his knuckles thoughtfully. 

“You think he’s going to return?” 

Hannibal’s teeth glimmered in the light. “The way he tingled all over when I put my arm around him? I’d bet a kilo of bone powder on it.” 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. What does Hermann think about all of this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may want to keep a tissue handy for this chapter. It's some pretty heavy stuff.

Pentecost was still awake when Hermann returned to the Shatterdome, just as Hermann had expected. Few people could subsist healthily on four to six hours of sleep per night; he and Pentecost were the only two Hermann knew.

“Sir?” he said from the doorway. “Permission to enter?”

Pentecost looked up from his iPad and nodded. “You don’t need to ask me for permission to do that when no one is here, Dr. Gottlieb. You know that.”

“It is a matter of respect, sir.” But Hermann entered the room without further argument, and with a wave of his hand, the marshal appeared to drop the matter.

“It’s good to see you back safe, Dr. Gottlieb.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hermann decided the marshal didn’t need to know exactly how close that had come to not being the case. “Fortunately, I also have some good news: it seems the redoubtable Mr. Chau has, in fact, liked me better than your trained negotiators and fast talkers.”

A phantom smile flickered across Pentecost’s face. “Then you may have just made my week, Doctor. What did our black-market friend have to say?”

“He has asked me to supper next Friday, at which time I am to make him a better offer than the sum we have previously quoted him. However, I do not think he will accept any sum of money.”

Pentecost straightened his back, obviously suppressing a tired sigh; Hermann didn’t blame him. “Did he give any indication what else he might want? If it is military technology, Dr. Gottlieb, I have to let you know that, under the circumstances, I might consider it.”

“Happily, I think he wants no such thing.” Hermann settled in the chair across from Pentecost’s desk and slowly stretched his left leg out in front of him. “I think, however, that he will accept me.”

The marshal’s eyes widened.

“Dr. Gottlieb, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day and—”

“Yes, sir. You heard correctly. I am certain, no matter what offer I make him this coming Friday, that he will only accept my person for carnal pursuits.”

Pentecost was normally the portrait of unflappable. Now, however, he sat straight as a statue, jaw so tight Hermann could see a muscle twitch on either side.

“No, Dr. Gottlieb. Our situation is dire, but I will not allow anyone under my command to prostitute themselves, no matter the potential benefit.”

“That is a comfort , sir, but I do not see this as prostitution, nor the benefits as merely potential.”

Pentecost’s back seemed only to clench tighter, as if he were warring with himself to keep a profound emotion at bay. He took several deep breaths before speaking. “Dr. Gottlieb, your dedication to our work here is nothing short of outstanding. You are tireless, hardworking, and self-sacrificing to a fault. However, sometimes that is precisely what concerns me.”

Hermann did his best not to bristle. “Marshal, if you please, my psychological profile is of no consequence in light of the very real threat of human extinction.”

“On the contrary, Dr. Gottlieb, I think it has everything to do with it. I’m sorry. I should never have put you in this position.”

Hermann swallowed back a sigh. “Marshal, if I may speak freely?”

Pentecost nodded once.

“Moments ago, you told me you would seriously entertain giving this Mr. Chau weapons in exchange for the Kaiju specimens we need to continue the very work you now question my dedication to fulfilling.”

Pentecost’s nostrils flared. “Dr. Gottlieb—”

This time the sigh escaped. “I’m sorry, Marshal. That was inappropriate of me, and I apologize. But surely,” he sat forward, “you must see the folly here. Giving Mr. Chau a weapon—any weapon—could put thousands, possibly millions, at risk; giving Mr. Chau myself, conversely, puts no one at risk.”

“Save, of course, for one of my two remaining K-scientists.”

“Marshal,” Hermann lowered his voice, “your concern for your scientists is admirable, your concern for my person deeply touching. However, I do not believe I will be in any danger. Mr. Chau is no fool, and he knows that harming me would bring the wrath of a formidable opponent down upon him.” He nodded at Pentecost. “For reasons that elude me, Mr. Chau seems to find my person, or more likely just my character, appealing. If I have understood his intentions correctly, and he indeed wishes to exchange sexual favors for a steady supply of Kaiju parts, then I see no reason not to take him up on his offer.”

“And…” Pentecost cocked his head. “How is this not prostitution, Doctor?”

Hermann schooled his face. He felt as though he were facing an interrogation, and one where Pentecost believed ardently that he knew the answer and was trying to entrap him into agreeing. He resented it. “I am quite flattered by his attentions and wish to see him again.”

“We…are talking about the same Hannibal Chau.”

Hermann folded his hands in his lap. “Marshal Pentecost, Hannibal Chau is an unsavory person, certainly, but he is nonetheless an interesting one. If the PPDC is to enter into a long-term arrangement with him, I would like to learn more about him.”

_Specifically: why he apparently propositioned me when, evidently, he did nothing of the kind to your other negotiators._

“And you would like to do so in…this particular sense?”

“He is also hardly displeasing to the eye.”

“But to the conscience?”

Hermann frowned. “Marshal, I will thank you not to bring my religion into this. For one thing, I am hardly a typical Catholic; for another, I examine my conscience daily, and I believe it would be a far greater sin to let any moral qualms, should I have them—which, again, I do not—permit me from doing all that I can to protect a planet that has already seen the deaths of nearly one billion people because of the Kaiju.”

Pentecost merely looked at him, his expression thoughtful. Well, Hermann thought, at least he was listening. “I know what some theologians say, and I respectfully but vehemently disagree; some issues of morality are simply not worth maintaining at all costs, particularly if the cost of maintaining that moral issue will be paid for not by the actor but by millions of others. Sir.” He sat forward again. “I am not in the habit of begging nor of questioning authority. However, I must implore you to trust me. You asked me to negotiate on behalf of the PPDC; please, let me continue those negotiations in a manner I am fully confident will yield results.”

The marshal sighed and stared out the window for a very long time. “You will report to me immediately after returning to the Shatterdome next Friday and all subsequent Fridays, and you will be accompanied at all times on these…assignations”—Hermann tried not to frown at the distaste with which he spoke the word—“by two armed soldiers.”

“Who, I trust, will maintain both distance and discretion?”

Pentecost sighed as he nodded. “Dr. Gottlieb, I will be candid with you. I am not happy with this arrangement, and I will do everything in my power to see that it is short-lived. As soon as we have the materials we need, your deal with Chau will terminate. ”

“I understand, sir.” Hermann felt neither of them needed to point out that when it came to the Kaiju War, things were rarely so brief or clean-cut.

“And if you are in even a moment of danger, Doctor—if you return to me with a single cut or bruise—if you so much as come back to us frowning, this operation will terminate.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I would not permit this even for a moment were we not up a creek with no paddles, a leaking boat, a riptide, and a few dozen starving piranha. Is that clear?”

“Sir.” Hermann saluted.

Pentecost actually smiled at that. “And you really have got to stop doing that, Dr. Gottlieb. It isn’t necessary for a science officer, and you keep doing it incorrectly. Now”—he rose from his chair, and Hermann did too—“it’s late, and you deserve something resembling a good night’s sleep.”

“Thank you, Marshal.” Hermann nodded. “I hope you also take your advice.”

Pentecost held the office door open for him. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with either of my scientists some days,” he said as Hermann made his way to the door.

“Yes, well,” Hermann said as he gave the marshal a rare, small smile, “at least you know which of us is the sensible one, yes?”

“Yes, speaking of that, one more thing, Doctor. Have you given thought to how this arrangement with Chau will impact your relationship with Dr. Geiszler?”

A small needle of heat pricked Hermann’s heart, but the pain dissipated almost as soon as it started. Just like an inoculation. “I don’t understand why it should, sir,” he said.

And he left it at that, hoping Pentecost would leave matters—and that particular comatose dog—to lie where they must remain.

Pentecost didn’t look as if he were convinced—though Hermann figured his difficulty with interpreting facial expressions could be clouding his data. “Just making sure,” the marshal said.

“Good night, Marshal.”

“Good night, Doctor.”

He left Pentecost standing in the doorway and shaking his head.

***

Hermann wasn’t certain why seemingly everyone in this particular Shatterdome apparently believed he and Newton should be intimate. Perhaps it was boredom. Perhaps it was the deleterious effect a state of constant world warfare had on both the brain’s logic and pleasure centers. Perhaps it was the inevitable outcome of living on a base staffed predominantly by three generations steeped in fanfiction and innuendo.

Regardless of the reason, it irritated Hermann on a good day, and angered him when he was in a particularly waspish humor—which said state of constant world warfare tended to bring out fairly often, despite his scores of prayers for patience.

This evening, it merely made him feel tired. If the marshal himself was now shifting for some sort of romance between his two remaining K-Science officers, then things really were amiss. Perhaps he should petition to have the groundwater tested again for Kaiju Blue. Among its scores of other deleterious effects, it was a known hallucinogenic, after all, as people like Chau were all too glad to exploit.

Trust humanity to find a way to kill itself faster even as he and his colleagues were sacrificing everything to save it.

 _Lord, I do not mean to be impudent, surely you know that_ , Hermann keyed his access code into the heavy door to the quarters he shared with Newton, _but some days I truly wonder why you went to all that trouble for us._

It was a terrible thought, one he would apologize for during tonight’s prayers; still, Hermann supposed God understood frustration, and the limited number of ways he had to cope with it.

Newton’s computer screen buzzed with a maze of repeating pipes in loud colors—a screensaver from an operating system that was in use when Newton was five years old and therefore “retro” in his estimation. The man himself lay sprawled on his unmade bed in the corona of the monitor’s blue light, clad in—

Hermann felt his cheeks heat as he hurriedly looked away. For goodness’ sake. Nine years at MIT and how many Ph.ds later, and the infuriating creature still couldn’t manage the difference between pajamas and underwear. Shaking his head, Hermann walked toward the closet as quietly as he could, keeping his attention equally on his path and on the sleeping figure so he wouldn’t wake him up—and only for that matter. The stubble along his jaw and the swirl of curls vanishing into Newton’s Kaiju boxer shorts had nothing to do with it.

His cane scuffed against the floor, and Newton—who, by all accounts should have slept like the grave—stirred and snorted.

“Hermann?” he asked as he moved his hands to his eyes and scrubbed at them, knocking his ridiculous glasses even further askew.

Hermann stopped mid-step, a fissure of guilt sparking through his chest. The man was irritating, yes, but he slept so erratically thanks to a combination of brain chemistry and medication that the last thing Hermann ever wished to do was rouse him from a sound sleep. “Newton? My apologies. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Nhhghn. Fuck, Hermann. Five hundred fucking hours at the assclap of dawn, Jesus balls.”

Hermann sighed. And, of course, the motley fool neither noticed nor appreciated the effort. “I do not disrespect your atheism, Newton, wrongheaded though I believe it is. For the last time, please refrain from blaspheming in my presence.”

“Uh-huh,” Newton grumbled as he sat up, hands in his messy black hair, as if rubbing his scalp vigorously could both wake him and shake some sense into him. “It’s late,” he said, sounding just a little more coherent. “You just get in?”

“No. I returned an hour ago. A laboratory matter needed my attention.”

Hermann detested lying, but now did not seem to be the appropriate time to tell Newton about his evening—indeed, he doubted any time would be appropriate. How he would handle this matter at confession Sunday morning was, he decided, a question he would tackle then with Fr. Patel; time would not be an issue, as he was the only Catholic in the Shatterdome who availed themself of the confessional every Saturday.

“At four hundred hours?” Newt sounded incredulous, and Hermann frowned, glancing at the clock. Indeed. Waiting for the ferry had taken a long time for a Friday night—far longer than he had thought. He switched on the light to the closet the two shared to make sure he wouldn’t fall while pulling out a nightshirt.

“I am not on duty until 1100,” he said, hoping Newton would be too tired to ask any further questions that would necessitate further lies. “I assure you, my work will not be compromised. Six hours is adequate sleep for me, as you well know.” Upon finding his favorite shirt, he slung it over his shoulder and made his way to the bathroom.

“No,” Newt said at his back. “That’s—” He then made a series of strangled noises that could not possibly mean anything good. Hermann stopped walking and clenched his hand around the handle of his cane until his knuckles shook.

“Aren’t you at least gonna tell me how it went?” he finally asked.

Hermann hated how stress went directly to his stomach, hated how it churned acid up into his throat in seconds. Newton was probably just wildly guessing this evening when he inquired about Hermann’s “hot date,” or whatever he had called it; still, Hermann never liked lightning when it struck quite so near.

The best way to put Newton off, in all senses of the word, was never to evade answering; happily, though, too many refusals tended to wear him out and send him on to the next distraction.

A rufous hummingbird, that was his man.

“You, on the other hand, are due for a briefing with the marshal at 0930. I would advise you to go back to sleep, Newton,” Hermann said.

“But—”

“Good night, Newton.”

And with that, he shut the door on any further protests. And even if Newton were stewing, which he probably was, Hermann had no time to worry about the matter further. Showering required his full concentration.

Every day, Hermann received a series of reminders that the Hong Kong’s Shatterdome had been designed by architects who were under the impression that people like him existed only in that vast and uncharted region of the globe known as Somewhere Else. In a way, he supposed it made sense; Hong Kong’s had been constructed in the earliest days of the Jaeger Program, when youth and ability had nearly been the default at the PPDC thanks to the particular stresses of drifting and of working among new and very dangerous machines. Indeed, when he had arrived at the Ranger Academy in 2015 driving a motorized wheelchair, his face only recently unbandaged from his second reconstructive surgery, he had garnered so much worse than a few confused looks. But ten years later, a significant amount of that youth and ability had changed, and with it, the Shatterdomes. Indeed, Tokyo and Lima’s had more than flirted with the concept of universal design.

But Tokyo and Lima’s bases were now shuttered, leaving him in a labyrinthine complex of too many stairs, ice-cold rooms, and a mess hall that could only be accessed by a service elevator that was often some degree of fetid. Were these normal circumstances at all—or as normal as circumstances could be when the human race was looking into the abyss of extinction—Hermann would have done exactly what he had during his first assignment in San Francisco: politely reminded human resources that Somewhere Else was now Here, and then not so politely screamed his way through the chain of command until someone agreed with the facts.

However, they were not normal circumstances at all. The PPDC was now chronically underfunded, choked by bureaucracy, and most likely on its way out come January 1, 2026. When it could barely keep its five Jaegers operational, Hermann felt rather embarrassed about submitting accessibility complaints unless absolutely necessary—and irritated at his embarrassment. And, in all honesty, when everyone agreed with him and nothing could be done to remedy the situation besides redesigning several parts of the Shatterdome, the energy he could have spent in screaming seemed far better invested in finding whatever solutions he could.

But sometimes, it seemed he didn’t need to even open his mouth. Shortly after he and Newton had relocated to Hong Kong for the second time in their decade of service, Hermann had found Aleksis and Sasha Kaidonovsky in what would be his new bathroom, armed with several welding tools. In the end, the shower had two bars he could use for navigation. That did little to remedy the slippery floors and an immobile showerhead, but so far, these and a sturdy bathmat—something the Kaidonovskys had designed with his input—had kept him from falling and cracking his head open.

As he always did when turning on the shower, Hermann braced himself for fire or ice—neither of which he would be able to escape quickly without the use of his cane. Mercifully, the water that spurted, then jetted onto his back was merely tepid, and it quickly heated to something approaching tolerable. Thanking God, Hermann lowered himself to the bath stool and reached for the shower caddy.

A few minutes into scrubbing his left side, Hermann realized he had been staring at feet of scar tissue without thinking of it as such.

It was strange, wasn’t it, how time, as artificial as it was, could change so many things. Hermann ran his fingers along the thick red gash that bisected his left kneecap, symbolizing the injury that had all but destroyed the delicate mechanism beneath and nearly resulted in amputation.

_I wonder what Mr. Chau will think of them._

Hermann frowned. Until now, he had not considered that, and he didn’t know why. Perhaps because Chau was himself scarred and likely no stranger to disabilities in his line of work? Or perhaps because his sexual interests were clearly not at all what most would call “typical”?

Or had he misread the situation entirely, and upset Pentecost for no reason? Heavens above, but he would be embarrassed if Chau only invited him to dinner out of boredom or to further annoy his would-be business partners.

Hermann sighed and turned his attention to his feet.

 _Second-guessing will not help_ , he reminded himself.

And suddenly, he was thinking of Amanda.

Hermann had been in love many times. Some of them childish pashes, yes, and some of them ill-advised adolescent disasters, but all of them precious. Amanda had been the first and last to have both noticed that love and returned it. They had met at the University of San Francisco in the summer of 2013—she a master’s candidate in geophysics, he a researcher in his first postgraduate position. Their courtship had been passionate in the way even drawing breath was when one had yet to truly know pain. In those days, he had hoped for commitment, marriage, something long-lasting—now, he was not certain what he had wanted. However, it was not Amanda’s departure; not a text message as he lay in a hospital bed, muzzy from painkillers and dripping with bandages, that she was sorry, but she just couldn’t handle it—the world, the monster attack, her friends missing, her brother presumed dead—it all hurt too much, and she couldn’t, she just couldn’t. And she was so, so sorry.

He had been angry, when the time for anger came. Hurt, abandoned, sad, even jealous, God help him, when he learned seven years ago that Amanda had married in 2014 and was now a mother. But he had never hated her.

How could he have ever hated someone he once loved?

Newton thought he hated him sometimes, he was certain of it. Their arguments could become fierce, and, God help him again, Hermann knew he could be cold, humorless, unforgiving, foul-tempered, and silent when riled—which was often when put in such close quarters with that endlessly handsy, loud, jittery ball of energy and artistry and _contradiction_ that was Newton Geiszler. And though he would never have wished that feeling on him, perhaps this illusion was for the best. It kept them grounded firmly in friendly antagonism that was quite the antithesis of what Hermann really felt.

Or what he let himself feel from time to time, even though it hurt.

He had been in love with Newton for the better part of their decade together. Only, by the time they met, he had been a through more surgeries than he could count, more recriminations from his father than he could handle, and pain that had regularly left him a mess of sobs and trembling. He had mourned his colleagues, mourned his body, and found his way to a religion that, when it could not explain mourning, at least made it make something approaching sense.

He barely recognized the Hermann Gottlieb who looked back at him in the accidental reflections of hospital trays and floor tiles.

Love, save for that given by God, had ultimately just been more than this new Hermann Gottlieb could handle; he did not know if he could survive it a second time.

Perhaps, he thought, as he worked the washrag up his right side, his hand shaking only a little with the effort, perhaps if Newton had been a bit more serious, a bit more intuitive. If he wasn’t so careless with the hearts of this many temporary lovers or so flippant with the future. If only the universe were more to him than a series of shiny and amusing toys that could be played with and discarded with no consequences.

Perhaps if he knew for certain that Newton would not stare at him in shock when he learned the depth of his feeling, only to see a door close in his expression. To hear the strained apology, and to watch as a decade between them burned to ashes.

He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. And he was so, so sorry.

No. Newton was not for him.

Hermann did not believe in fate as it was popularly understood. He did, however, believe that he had found his purpose in life, and that his life would continue to be a solitary one. All things moved toward their ends, and so would his association with Newton. Either in the extinction of humanity, or in its rescue. The PPDC’s Jaeger program would sunset when—not if, when—the Breach was closed or destroyed, and friends would go their separate ways. With no shared goals to sustain them, he and Newton would inevitably part. They would promise to write and to chat, and perhaps would even manage for a few months before Newton—

Hermann winced and covered his heart with a hand. No. The thought of the man he loved either forgetting him or wedding another was the stuff of nightmares. He would only visit it when he had no choice but to stare into its depths, feel out its contours, accept it as another hurt in a decade of hurts.

And when those inevitable partings came, he would do as he had done since he had first begun to believe that the universe did not turn without direction: he would offer the pain of them up to the One who so loved the world that he had willingly let it kill him.

And he would wish Newton joy without measure, and he would do so without dying.

The water was beating coldly against him now, but Hermann was shivering for another reason entirely. Numbly, he pulled himself to his feet and turned the tap until the showerhead drizzled to a stop.

 _It’s for the best. For everyone_ , he thought as he patted at himself with the towel. His limbs felt stiff and heavy; his leg would definitely be swollen and painful tomorrow morning.

_Please, Lord. Let me understand that it is for the best._

By the time Hermann had dried and dressed himself, Newton was sleeping again. Hermann clicked the closet light off on his way to his bed, wincing with every step. He tried not to, but sometimes he loathed Hong Kong, its rain and its damp, its rusty Shatterdome and its emptiness. But tonight, he nearly did.

Huddled in beneath blankets that could never quite seem to keep him warm, Hermann thought of Pentecost. He had told another lie tonight, he realized. He was amenable to Chau’s attentions not solely because of how the other man stared at him, or his unusual appearance, or even how submitting to him could help the PPDC.

And if he admitted that reason to himself, all would be lost.

Hermann wrapped his arms around his chest and counted off the decades of the rosary silently until sleep overcame him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal has ulterior motives. (#big surprise) He also thinks Newt is a hipster. (#bigger surprise)

(Thursday.)

The only way this week could get any better, Hannibal thought as he looked up from his tablet, was if those riots in DC would just stop long enough for him to get through to that buyer who wanted a ton of Blu. Or if his people on the ground there just shot the prick and got him the money anyway. Either/or.

“Ming, don’t take this the wrong way, but if you didn’t have that nice woman waiting for you at home, and you and I were both so inclined, I’d dip you over this desk and lick your tonsils.”

Ming chuckled as she poured a second glass of bourbon and carried both over to her boss’s desk. “And how do you know Yayoi wouldn’t be up for that, sir?” She sat his down by his right hand and took a seat in front of his desk.

The same place Gottlieb had sat five days ago.

“Really?” Hannibal pushed the images of the little egghead’s garnet-colored eyes and long fingers away and raised his rock glass. Ming clinked hers against it and they both drank. “Didn’t think I was her type.”

“You’re not, not really. But she has a thing for American accents and beards.”

“Smart lady.” Hannibal took another swallow and let the bourbon burn down his throat. “Still can’t believe you got all this without even a raised eyebrow. I mean, you’re good, Ming, but that right there? Real negligence on their part.”

Ming nodded. “It’s almost as if they haven’t had time to organize anything but essential databases. Then again, they probably haven’t.”

“Hmmn,” Hannibal agreed as he thumbed through the pages again. Of course, he’d read Gottlieb’s dossier through five times already today, but some of these details were just bright little gems he couldn’t help but tumble over and over.

_Graduated high school at seven; taught college-level calculus at age eleven…_

_Near-fatal injuries sustained to left leg, hip, shoulder, face, and left and right hands during first Kaiju attack, 11 August 2013. Only survivor found in SFU campus biomechanical laboratory, discovered 17 August 2013…_

_Verbally and emotionally abusive relationship with father, Dr. Lars Gottlieb, lead engineer, financier, and proponent of anti-Kaiju Wall…_

_Uses numbers to put psychological distance between self and other PPDC members, with whom he has few meaningful relationships…_

_Lead code writer for_ Turing Boreal _, Jaeger prototype #06, and_ Yukon Brawler _, first deployed Jaeger…_

“One of J-Science’s pioneers,” he breathed. “On my turf. About ready to do just about anything to broker a deal for all the Kaiju guts his K-Sci buddy can use.”

Said K-Sci buddy made him feel a bit vicious, though. Best not to think about this Geiszler now. He flashed his second a mouthful of metal instead.

“You still haven’t told me why that part’s so special,” she said. “Even though I’ve got a funny feeling I know. You’ve been more than hinting about some new bullshit idea all week, and that’s the smile you’ve got when you’re about to do something big that you may need to be talked out of.”

“Nah, I’ve been planning this whole operation since ’19; even back then anyone paying attention could tell what’d happen the day those Jaeger pilots stopped being rock star messiahs and just became soldiers again. And thanks to Mouthy’s papa, a couple super-corps, and a bunch of UN lunkheads, the PPDC’s going away even sooner than most people thought. Now, you and me and everyone else including most of those lunkheads probably knows that wall’s a piece of crap and a scam, and millions are gonna die when just it and some little airplanes stand between them and the next Kaiju. Maybe billions if they move inland after stomping all over the coasts.” He shook his head. “Hell, I appreciate making money as much as the next scumbag, but even I gotta admit that’s pretty cold.”

Ming nodded. “And K-Science is going to stop that, even without any working Jaegers.”

A statement. Not a question. God, he loved this girl.

“So. No defenses and Kaiju rampaging all over the Pacific. Twenty-thirteen all over again, only this time they’re bigger and meaner. Cat 4s and 5s instead of little piddly Cat 2s. But what if there were machines that could fight these things off? That had proven track records and worked great ’til those UN and corporate and government lunkheads pulled their funding. And what if, ooh, maybe, juuust maybe, someone was making them again? Tougher, meaner, and more efficient?”

Ming stared at him as if he’d just lost his goddamn marbles. “Sir, you—the number of industries involved…the scope of the operation…the raw materials themselves—”

“Are all sitting there rusting away in Lima, Anchorage, Tokyo, San Francisco, Vladivostok, etc. etc. Oh, sure, we need money, and employees, and a whole lotta things we don’t have just now, but you remember how eager people were for the PPDC back in 2014. Put a knife against someone’s throat, and they tend to pony up. If we grab some of them now—we sure as hell have enough friends in Russia to make that old Shatterdome a real possibility—we’ll be about ready to go when the PPDC shuts its doors—under a name that isn’t mine, of course, and a big enough paper trail that most people won’t even bother reading it. I corner the market, both the Jaegers and the Kaiju, we all become rich enough to swim in money Scrooge McDuck-style, and anyone on the Pacific rim tells me I can’t have something I want?” He snapped his fingers. “Well. Let’s see how they like fighting off Kaiju with sticks.” 

Ming grinned, but he couldn’t help but think she was just being indulgent.

“We’ve got the cars,” he persisted. “All we need to do now is find the key.”

“And you think Gottlieb is that key?”

“You’re shaking your head, little sister.”

“Someone who attends Mass three times a week and describes himself as ‘a devotee of the Blessed Virgin and a would-be lay Jesuit’ doesn’t strike me as a loyal Kaiju Remedies employee.”

“Now, see, that’s where you’re wrong.” Hannibal leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk. “That little choirboy’s already thrown in with us.” He ticked his points off on his fingers. “He let Stacker use him as a middleman. He faced down a firing squad with a sneer and told me to go fuck myself. And tomorrow night, when I tell him the only way he’s getting his Kaiju goodie bag is if he gives me some of that sweet ass, the only thing he’s gonna say is, ‘Yes, sir.’” He mimicked Gottlieb’s stuffy British-accented English. “He’s a pragmatist, same as you and me. And more than that, he’s got about the biggest messiah complex since Jesus Christ himself. If he thinks I can save humanity, even if I’m going to be extorting the hell out of it to do so, he’ll program anything I ask him to. Hell, if I could convince him he could stop the Kaiju by putting a bullet through that big brain of his, he’d do it.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but somehow he only made himself shudder. Okay. So funnies about doing violence to Gottlieb were out. That was annoying.

“And if you’re wrong?”

Hannibal shrugged. “Then I fuck him until he’s too dick-whipped to do anything but say yes. People like that, Ming, aren’t that hard to handle. Sure, you can’t con an honest person or bribe someone that unselfish, generally speaking, but just about everyone’s selfish when it comes down to sleeping alone or sleeping with somebody, especially if they’re lonely. And something—I dunno, maybe it’s the bitchiness or the shrinks who call him ‘emotionally blunted’—makes me think Mouthy’s just about the loneliest person I’ve ever seen. And one of the most emotionally fucked up.”

Ming was silent for a moment. As if she were disagreeing. It made Hannibal uncomfortable.

“Whatcha thinking?”

Ming pursed her lips. “I think you’re spouting bullshit, same as usual.”

“Aw, that’s mighty sweet of you.”

“But you take bullshit and turn it into gold.” And, ahh, yes. There was the real grin he’d been looking for. “How soon do you want me calling our friends in Moscow?”

“Monday’s fine, just in case Gottlieb really does get an attack of Catholic guilt and storms out on me; gives me more time to locate some disgruntled former PPDC J-scientists to finesse.”

Ming nodded and stood, collecting both of their empty tumblers. “Anything else tonight, sir?”

“Yeah, one other thing.”

 

“Of course.”

“Go home and hug your wife. And tell her she’s got impeccable taste in men.”

Hannibal could hear her chuckling long after she closed the door on him.

Alone in his office, Hannibal poured himself another drink and settled in to reread Gottlieb’s dossier. To turn those bright little jewels of his life over and over again in his mind. By the time he reached the description of the kid’s J-science background, he’d unzipped and taken himself out. Sure, five days ago, he hadn’t known anything about this Gottlieb, even that he was related to the asshole building the wall.

Those long, slim hands, pounding away line after line of Jaeger code.

That big mouth sliding up over his dick.

Those deep brown eyes looking up into his.

The way he’d moan and shiver when Hannibal would bounce him in his lap. Fuck him against the wall. Into the mattress. On the floor.

His little pet scientist.

“Nhh.” Hannibal threw his head back and moved his hand away from his cock. Too hot. He was getting way too hot for this, way too fast. That’s what three months of celibacy’d do to you; make you stupid when every single kink you had walked through the door in an ass-ugly sweater vest and started yelling at you.

A few more jerks into a handkerchief finished him off.

A few deep breaths and another sip of bourbon, and Hannibal tossed the handkerchief into the trash, zipped up, and went back to his iPad.

_Need something to cool me down._

_Near-pathological obsession with colleague Dr. Newton Geiszler._

Hannibal stopped scrolling and started reading. Yep. That’d do it.

He’d only skimmed this section before, because, frankly? This Geiszler made him want to break things. Like his face. Which Hannibal had looked up online immediately after reading his name. He called the picture up on his pad now and stared at it for the fourth—okay, ninth—time that day.

It was a recent photo, something from 2024 for some journal or another about the new field of xenobiology, which the kid had pioneered or something. Hannibal couldn’t remember; he’d been too busy staring at the little fucker’s face. Geiszler was relaxing against a brick wall, left foot pressed flush with it and supporting his weight, hands on skinny little hips just beneath a _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ T-shirt designed for people who weren’t even alive when it went off the air. Tight black pants that were obviously faux Kaiju leather and—and this was the kicker. Tattoos up both arms, vanishing right into his short sleeves. They were definitely of Kaiju which, damn, Hannibal had seen some tacky ink jobs before, but these would probably win some kind of prize for being tasteless. He had a mess of black hair that looked like he’d just shoved his finger up an electric socket, and glasses that’d gone out of style in about ’15 or so over eyes caffeine had definitely had a hand in widening. Overall, he had one of those irritating faces that just screamed, “Beat me up. It’ll make you feel better.” The angle of the photo was slightly fish-eyed in an artsy way; probably this was a scientific journal for dipshits.

Hannibal flexed his fists. For God’s sake, hadn’t anybody told him that hipsters had never been cool? And that if you were still a hipster at thirty-five, you were definitely trying too hard?

Sure, he was kind of attractive. Maybe. Under different circumstances, Hannibal might’ve thought so, anyway. He did have a nice little paunch going for him, just like Gottlieb’s. And while that mouth wasn’t nearly as pretty, he supposed it was kissable.

“Fuck me with spoon,” he muttered as he flipped away from the picture and into the extensive pages of Gottlieb’s complaints against the little runt.

Noise complaint. Noise complaint. Cleanliness complaint. Disrespect complaint. _Inappropriate beverage complaint_? _Misuse of chalk complaint_? _Action figures complaint?_

“Surprised there isn’t a breathing complaint,” Hannibal said as he flipped to another. “Oh. There it is.”

Kid had it bad. Probably, the way the prickly little bastard acted, this Geiszler had turned him down unceremoniously and now he was taking revenge through human resources—irritating, vicious, yet one hundred percent harmless, since no one would ever read these except for some bored interns who wanted a giggle or a look at the very sad love life of someone they might one day eat lunch with.

For a guy whose IQ could probably account for at least three MENSA members, the Gottlieb kid was a grade-A numbskull when it came to actual human beings. He might as well have just written “I still love you, Dr. Geiszler!” on all those forms, folded them into paper planes, and sent them sailing into the guy’s office or laboratory or whatever he had.

Poor Hermann.

Huh. Since when had pettiness and cluelessness become turn-ons for him?

Oh, yeah. He could use this to twist Mouthy around if the brat got too cocky.

Still…

Frowning, Hannibal pushed the Call icon on his pad and touched the name Little Sister.

“Boss?” Ming picked up on the second ring. “You forget something?”

“No, just had another thought. Shoulda had it before. When you make that second Kaiju delivery over to the Shatterdome, think you can get me the same dirt on this other K-Sci clown?”

“No problem. You thinking of making this a two-for-one special? He is pretty cute, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Just get the dossier, Nosy,” he grumbled before hanging up. Really, she could also be a major pain in the ass sometimes.

Who was this guy who held Mouthy’s heart in his hands? And why moon after someone who either didn’t know or want what he had when plenty of other people out there would gladly ride that mouthy little scientist like a Jaeger?

He was just sayin’.

Some people just didn’t deserve the nice things that got handed to them.

And that was enough of that for now. Hannibal closed Gottlieb’s dossier and got up to pour himself another glass of bourbon.

Really, all things considered, this was a pretty damn good week.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermann talks about numbers.
> 
> Also: sex.

(Friday evening.)

Her name was Ming, and he did not particularly like the knowing way she looked at him before she led him through the jewel box of a laboratory—now deserted, apparently—and through a twisting vein of hallways that branched in an apparently entirely the opposite direction than the one Chau had taken him upon his last visit.

“I do not mean to be impudent, madam,” he said as he followed, unhappy that Ming had frustrated any attempts at a more formal address by refusing to give him a surname, “but walking is hardly my greatest aptitude.”

“It’s not too much farther,” Ming said without looking back.

Helpful. Incredibly so. Really, how could he see about getting her a commendation? “If I may inquire,” he asked as she led him around yet another corner, “how much farther is ‘not too much’?”

“It means right here.” Ming gestured to a red door upon which was painted Chau’s ubiquitous Kaiju logo— _quel surprise_ ; really, it was embarrassing how strongly the man felt the need to mark his territory. “Go in. He’s waiting.”

“Thank you. If I—”

But Ming was already leaving.

“Well, I do hope _someone_ will show me out eventually,” Hermann grumbled before knocking.

“Hiya, Mouthy. C’mon in,” Chau’s voice boomed.

Hermann opened the door on yet another opulent room in cinnabar and gold. In front of him lay a small dining table draped with—again, _quel surprise_ —a red-and-gold tablecloth. Two candles burned in the center, and Hermann could smell the spices of Setzuan vegetables.

“Evening, Dr. Gottlieb.”

“Mr. Chau.” Hermann shut the door and walked forward, noting as he did that Chau had positioned his chair with a clear view of the room’s only entrance and exit. The life of a gangster, he thought, would be nasty, brutish, and short, indeed unless they watched every moment for danger.

Rather like his life, in a way.

“Your employee was incredibly polite and helpful in leading me through five miles of tunnels and oubliettes,” Hermann said in his most edged tone of voice. He didn’t care if he was being rude; his leg could not brook so much walking, particularly with another rainstorm aggravating nearly every damaged nerve and scarred tissue.

“Her?” Chau asked with a shrug. “Aw, don’t mind Ming. She’s just a bit overworked today. New Kaiju to chop up, orders to fill, my front desk guy playing hooky to snort up twice his annual salary in bone powder—you met Pincushion already, and I’m sorry about that. Also, Mouthy? She’s a gangster, not the hospitality desk at the Ritz.” But he pushed up out of his chair and lumbered to Hermann’s side.

“But,” he drawled, “I shoulda reminded her to take you the shorter way. Here.” He pulled Hermann’s chair out. “Sorry about bothering the leg. That’s the problem, right? All this rain making it swell and stiffen up?”

Hermann raised an eyebrow.

“People regularly get their bodies messed up in my line of work, kiddo. Leg injuries are pretty common—and I’m pretty sure yours is an injury; mobster’s intuition, if you will. Is sitting down gonna make it worse for you? Cuz I won’t mind if you want to do this meeting standing.”

“No. Seated is fine. I would very much appreciate the respite.” Hermann eased himself into the chair, hooked his cane onto the back, wriggled it in closer to the table, and stretched his left leg out slowly, biting back a sigh as muscles unclenched and the pain eased off a little.

It was then he realized that the seat had been arranged with extra cushions.

“Comfortable?” Chau asked. He was still at Hermann’s side—not hovering or staring, but looking attentive.

Hermann frowned. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Wasn’t aware that making sure you can walk away from this meeting qualified as being ‘nice’ instead of ‘not doing any harm,’” Chau said as he returned to his chair. “First thing you gotta get clear about me, Mouthy, is I don’t get my jollies messing people up—unless they threaten my turf or don’t deliver what they promise or otherwise piss me off. But you want me to pull out my balisong and wave it at you again so you can get some more street cred, just say the word.”

“I see.” Hermann looked at the spread before him—Setzuan beef, Setzuan bean curd, brown rice, salad with a sweet chili dressing, spring rolls… 

“Have whatever you feel like,” Chau said as he poured himself a glass of white wine. “You didn’t tell me what you wanted to eat, so I figured we couldn’t go wrong with something nice and traditional that it’s easy to remove allergens from, in both dead animal and non-dead-animal flavors. But if it’s a problem, we can fix it—and yeah, before you ask, not killing my potential business partners before we get down to business also falls under my code of hospitality.”

“No, this is fine. Thank you.” Hermann considered the dishes and chose the beef; even though he longed for the tofu, he would need the protein now if he wanted to indulge in Dr. Tang’s vegetarian dim sum tomorrow.

Oh, Newton….

No. Newton did not belong in this room, especially not in his thoughts.

“Wine? You are about to eat the food of the underworld, you know—in for a penny, in for a pound,” Chau said with a smirk.

“No thank you. I will remind you: I do not drink.”

Chau shrugged as he picked up his chopsticks. “Okay, Gottlieb. Eat, drink—or don’t, in your case—and be merry, for who knows if we’ll get to tomorrow. Business afterward.”

Hermann would much rather have gotten down to the matter at hand then and there. But not one to contradict a host—particularly one armed with at least one butterfly knife and who knew what else—he obediently ate. The food was delectable, some of the finest Setzuan he had ever enjoyed. He tried not to let his nerves ruin the experience.

Had he misunderstood Chau’s intentions? The gangster had been solicitous, yes, but hardly sexual. He had not, for example, touched his shoulder or even given him a salacious look. Perhaps he simply had invited Hermann here to waste his time, laugh at him, and send him back to the marshal with word tha he would no longer politely tolerate PPDC begging.

“You’re awful quiet for a shouty little thing,” Chau said after a few minutes.

“Yes.”

“Well, so long as you own it, I guess.” Chau took another sip of wine. “Though I gotta say, I like your style, Gottlieb. No small talk. No chitchat. Straight down to brass knuckles. Seriously, you ever think about a life in organized crime?”

“I can’t say that I’ve been visited by that particular temptation, no.”

“Pity,” Chau mused as Hermann speared another roundel of beef with his fork—and bless the man for giving him that option!

They finished their dinner in relative silence. It was not an awkward one, Hermann noted as he ate, but rather a comfortable one. They had nothing of import to say to each other yet, so they saw no need to disturb themselves. After years of dinners spent with Newton, to whom everything including respiration was fodder for a dissertation of an aside, the change was…marked. Even welcome.

“Well,” Chau said before taking the last swallow of wine. “If you’re all set, let’s get down to business now. What do you and your K-Sci buddies want with my Kaiju? And no”—he held up a hand as Hermann opened his mouth—“you’re not getting a chalkboard or a big piece of paper you can put up on the wall so you can draw me some pretty pictures. I got enough K-Science rattling around up in here”—he tapped his head—“without adding in a bunch of numbers and squiggles I don’t understand and don’t give a shit about.”

“But without the mathematics, I cannot—”

“Oh, baloney. You’re a smart boy, Gottlieb. And you’ve had to explain the entire mess to plenty of people with a lot less brains and a lot shorter attention span than I’m packing. So convince me.”

Hermann breathed deeply to control his heartbeat. Newton. Whenever K-Science had to justify itself to United Nations task forces, or flighty laypeople, or journalists who were not gifted science writers, he always relied on Newton to hold their attention, to spoonfeed, to—God help him—entertain them as he did. He was the showman; Hermann the straight man when needed, even if playing that part made him bristle.

Without his chalkboard—no, without Newton to make him seem human—he felt naked. Powerless.

Chau was drumming his fingers against the table, his eyes unreadable as always, but his mouth pulling into a frown. “One thing that pisses me off, Mouthy? When people keep me waiting.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I—” It must surely have been the Holy Spirit whispering in his ear, because as his gaze moved to the half-empty serving dishes in front of them, he felt inspiration descend on him like fire.

“This is our universe,” he said, gesturing to the beef. “And this”—at the tofu—“is the Kaiju’s. This”—he balanced his fork along the lips of both plates, connecting them—“the gateway between both, which we call the Throat.”

“Okay,” Chau said, sounding completely unimpressed.

“But the Throat, its shape and dimensions, is, at best, just a guess.” He flipped the fork away with a two fingers. “ You have heard of black holes, Mr. Chau?”

“No shit.”

“Well, we cannot study the interior of them because they suck in everything, including light. We can only speculate, then, at the depth and breadth and conditions of them. As we cannot enter the Breach—and not for lack of trying; we have, indeed, attempted to send Jaegers into it—we similarly know little of the Kaiju’s universe. That is where mathematics comes in.”

“How?”

Hermann pursed his lips. “Mathematics, Mr. Chau, are not the squiggles you imagine. They are clearer than words, which can mislead, purer than politics, which can lie, and higher than philosophy, which can kill. They tell only the truth. And I and my former colleagues—who, due to the UN’s misguided priorities are no longer with me—used mathematics to create a predicative model to determine when and how often the Kaiju would strike. Indeed, sometimes we were even able, using another model, to accurately predict where the Kaiju would strike. However, earlier this week, this model ceased to be accurate. The double event of Tiamat and Orochi happened far too soon and brought with it one Kaiju too many. It is now, I regret to say, not worth the chalk in which it was written.”

Chau scratched his chin. “So if math never lies, why’d your model break?”

“Math is infallible, Mr. Chau.” Hermann swallowed and looked at his hands. “I, alas, am not. I do not know where I went wrong. I am trying to find out. However, my mathematics can only fight a defensive war, which is becoming increasingly prohibitive on several fronts. My colleague, Dr. Geiszler, is our biologist.” Chau’s lip curled at the mention of Newton. “He is the one who will study the Kaiju viscera you will, I hope, supply.”

“So why isn’t this Geiszler here? Why send you?”

Hermann felt his own lips twitch into a smile. “Because, Mr. Chau, Dr. Geiszler is a self-described Kaiju fanboy. He would have offered you our entire operating budget for a gram of your Kaiju bone powder.”

“Hmmn .” Chau folded his arms across his chest. “Fair enough.”

“I am loath to say this, you must understand, but until I can rethink ten years of research, the science my colleague practices is the only way we can truly fight an offensive war once again. Unfortunately, he lacks specimen to study that are not decrepit, redundant, or unusable due to government interference and human foibles. You, quite frankly, are his best and only hope for the subjects he requires.”

Chau held up his hands. “Okay, I get why. Now, what’s your offer?”

Hermann swallowed again. Suddenly, his throat felt as if it had been filled with nails.

He must speak now.

“Let us be candid, Mr. Chau,” he said, squeezing his suddenly damp hands into fists at his sides. “We cannot offer you the money your private collectors are quite willing to pay, and neither, it seems, can we offer you any salvage rights or assistance. You have, it would seem, a true cottage industry.”

“Yep. Good we’re on the same page.”

“Thus.” Hermann swallowed again. “I can only conclude from the looks you have given me, and from your invitation this evening, that you are interested in myself as payment. If you want to have sex with me, I am prepared to give you access to my body—As much and as often as you would like.”

“No, no.” Chau waved his hands as if refusing a glass of wine he didn’t particularly care for. “God, what kind of guy do you take me for? You pay any attention to where you are, son, or just those numbers in your head? This is the Kowloon bone slum! I can walk to the corner and get any kink I want by the pound! I may not even have to leave the comfort of my own office! No, I don’t want sex from you, Mouthy. Not yet, anyway. Oh, no. I wanna see that pretty blush you’ve got on now spread all the way down to your back. I wanna see that big mouth of yours fight back a moan and lose. And, yeah, someday I want to see you gasping after you come all over yourself. Something tells me you need it.”

Hermann felt as if his face were melting. He tried to tell Chau it was none of his business, but the words only churned in his throat. This only seemed to amuse his host.

“Come on, Gottlieb. I mean, sometimes the ones getting laid the most are the ones you’d never expect, but most of them don’t have all your particular attributes.” He gestured, wide and open-handed, at Hermann’s body. “All buttoned up like a monk. Talking like someone from the 1940s, and, let’s be honest, son, you really need a better deodorant. How long’s it been?”

Hermann wet his dry lips with a swallow of wine he barely tasted. “Never.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“Hardly.” Hermann set his glass down. “Not everyone aspires to live by your personal metric, Mr. Chau, even if it a popular metric.”

“I’m arrogant, son, but not that arrogant. I just don’t see why not. Religious reasons?”

“No. At least, not in the way you think. As your people have no doubt informed you, Mr. Chau, I had just begun post graduate work at San Francisco State University days before Trespasser attacked the city. I was in the laboratory at the time, and the laboratory was directly in its path. My left leg and part of my pelvis were broken by a falling bookshelf, and both hands and my face significantly damaged by debris. I assure you, during the surgeries and convalescence that followed, and then my work in K- and J-Science, sex was the furthest thing from my mind.”

The horror of it was an old, dull thing. Revisited many times in therapists’ offices, for news reports, for guest homilies, for the curious. Save for the rare sudden onslaught of sensation or the rarer nightmare, it no longer hurt or terrified.

“Sorry, kid. That’s rough,” Hannibal said, and the softness in that growl of a voice made Hermann wonder if he truly meant it. “But you do like it…or the idea of it?”

“Oh, yes.” Hermann permitted himself a small smile.

“You’d better not be hetero.”

“Indeed, I am not.”

“Gay? Bi?”

“Omnisexual.”

“That mean what I think it does?”

“I have found few words in English that adequately describe my sexuality. This is one of the best. Sex. Gender identity. Age. Everything is irrelevant to me but personality. I have loved a variety of people across a legion of identifiers, and all had one thing in common—speaking with them brought me intense pleasure.”

“And if you loved all these people, none of them ever offered to pop your cherry?”

Hermann looked away momentarily. “I was seldom loved in return.” The realization had stopped hurting long ago as well, dulled no doubt by years of physical pain and late nights at the chalkboard. But sometimes, just saying or thinking the words could make him wistful.

“Take that jacket off.”

His gaze snapped back to Chau, who was giving him another of those inscrutable looks.

“Excuse me?”

“Just the jacket, Mouthy. I know you’ve got a body under all those layers, but that’s about all I know. Tonight, I wanna get a better idea of what it looks like. Oh, come on. You never walk around without one?”

“My injuries are exacerbated by the cold, and the Shatterdome is apparently impossible to heat.”

“Well, it’s plenty warm in here. But, if you really don’t want those Kaiju kibbles and bits…”

Hermann gripped the side of the table and pulled up to his feet. He fumbled with the sleeve as he worked the garment from the right side of his body. A little bud of heat blossomed just above his breastbone and spread petals and tendrils out along his chest, his collarbone, up the sides of his neck. He had long ago ceased begrudging most of humanity its unwavering interest in bodies that performed and looked as if they had just been removed from a plastic wrapper. Still, he was patently aware that this was hardly the kind of striptease a man of Chau’s experience would want.

“Yeah,” Chau moaned. “That’s what I like to see.”

“You needn’t be polite.”

“I hate polite people. I usually use them for target practice.” When Hermann stared at him, Chau laughed. “Best part of being a gangster, kid? Never letting anyone know when you’re kidding and when you’re serious. But I am being serious here—I like your body, especially now I can see it a little more.”

Hermann folded his arms across his chest. He was still wearing a heavy sweater, a longsleeve shirt, and a cotton undershirt on his torso, but Chau’s smile made him feel as if he were far more naked.

“There, not too bad, huh?” Chau wiped his mouth on his napkin and stood, discarding it onto the seat of his chair. “Walk with me.” Before Hermann could reach for his cane, the older man offered an arm.

Hermann looked at it in suspicion for a moment before wrapping his own through it.

Like everything else Hannibal Chau owned, the settee was plush, cinnabar, and looked as if it belonged in a catalogue. The upholstery shined like silk, though why anyone would want to do such a thing was beyond Hermann.

Then again, this was Hannibal Chau. Nothing about his tastes was practical.

“Here.” Chau eased him down onto the settee and sat beside him on the right after Hermann had stretched out his left leg. He eased one large arm back around the sofa, and consequently across the tops of Hermann’s shoulders. Hermann felt the same heat prickle up from his chest to the back of his neck as the first time the other man had touched him there, only this time the gesture was far more intimate. He jittered when calloused fingertips brushed his neck. It tickled, but the warmth of the wide pads soon calmed him.

“And three buttons on that shirt, Mouthy,” Chau growled. “I want some more of that neck.”

Hermann’s right hand shook against his collar, and not entirely from nerve damage or his natural clumsiness. When he managed to get the third button open, Hannibal parted the folds and rested three fingers just below the divot of Hermann’s collarbone. He left them there long enough for Hermann to feel their heat spread into his skin, to feel the dimensions of them. The tips were thick, rough, not the sort of hands he’d expect for one who was essentially a businessman. Indeed, no; these were hard hands, dangerous hands. Hermann did not like to think about what other things they did.

Chau inclined his head, and Hermann shivered as his beard brushed against the lip of his ear. “Yeah.” His voice reminded him of chocolate, mahogany, something dark and liquor-like. “Good?” His fingers teased to the top of the fourth button, toyed with it.

Hermann nodded, then gasped as something warm and slippery and glided down his throat like a snail, leaving a chilly trail in its wake and raising a shudder like a tidal wave up his back.

“Ngh!” 

Chau’s left hand splayed against his head and locked him in place as he tried to pull away. “Nope. Relax, pretty.”

“What are you doing, Mr. Chau?”

“I’m neck man, son. Anyone ever tell you, you’ve got a nice one?”

“My colleagues are not in the habit of discussing my—personal attributes.”

“Yeah, yeah. At least where you can hear it, you mean.” Chau licked another line down the side of his neck.

Hermann stiffened. “I don’t like this.”

Chau stopped mid-lick, and his grip loosened on Hermann’s head. “You uncomfortable or just not used to it?”

Hermann frowned. “I don’t know.” It was the truth, he reflected. The sex he had imagined had never included something like this.

“Okay,” Chau said. “Sit up for a sec. We need to clarify a few things.”

Hermann raised his head and scooted a few inches away. Of course, he thought. Now that Chau knew the full extent of his inexperience, he wouldn’t honor their arrangement. He would laugh and send him away. He would not touch him again.

How could he possibly return to the Shatterdome having failed? Without the Kaiju organs he had promised Pentecost? That Newton would be so thrilled to have? That were so very necessary to their work?

“Okay, you told me about the sex,” Chau asked, snapping him out of his spiraling anxiety, “but has anyone actually ever touched you, kid? And I don’t mean your folks—not that kinda touch.” Hermann shook his head. “Anybody ever kissed you? Again, Auntie Hilde slobbering on your cheek doesn’t count.” When Hermann only looked at him, Hannibal tilted his head. “Oh, Gottlieb.”

“As I told you, Mr. Chau. I was seldom loved in return.”

Chau looked at him for a long time, and Hermann felt himself growing nervous. What would the other man do?

“I’m sorry, I—”

Chau held up a gold-ringed index finger. “Time for some ground rules. First rule: You don’t apologize for anything you want or don’t want here, or anything you haven’t done. Second rule: If you don’t like something, you tell me and it stops. No questions asked, except one: just like I did here, I’m gonna ask whether you don’t like it, or whether it’s just unfamiliar. There’s no right answer. You know what a safeword is?”

“Yes.” Hermann tried to sound affronted, but not very hard; they both knew his knowledge of sex was far below average. “A word used during sex to let all parties know when an action being done to one party is not permissible.”

Marvelous. Now he sounded like a dictionary.

Hannibal’s smile, however, seemed to indicate that he was charmed by it. “So what one do you want?”

Hermann thought immediately of the laboratory, the broad, black tape line he had asked the movers to lay down the center in this Shatterdome and the other four at which he and Newton had lived over the last decade. Of Newton’s clear disregard for that line and human resources’ refusal to do anything about that disregard. Of squishy clumps of Kaiju _biology_ on a floor he had just wiped.

“Entrails,” he said decisively.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

“Is there a problem? You asked for me to select one.”

“No, no problem. Just an unusual choice is all. Anything else I should know? Sore spots?”

“They change daily.”

“On your neck or shoulders?”

“Not today, and not typically. Generally speaking, my leg, hips, back, and left arm, however…”

“So nothing we’re playing with today,” Chau said with a nod. And then, opening his arm and wriggling his beringed fingers: “C’mere.”

Hermann returned to leaning against him.

Chau’s fingers moved back to the plateau just below the divot. “This was good, right?”

Hermann nodded. “Yes.”

“Okay. So we’ll stick with what we know.” Those rough fingertips moved in slow concentric circles again, the calluses scraping just a little, as if his skin were dusted in sand. Hermann took in a deep, shuddering breath.

“Try and relax, yeah?” Chau whispered against his ear; the prickle of his beard against the lobe made Hermann shiver. “You’re so hard it’s like I’m hugging on obsidian—and I don’t mean that in a good way, seeing as you’re not exactly popping a boner for me—yet. ”

More heat suffused Hermann’s face and neck.

“You know how sexy you are when you blush like that, Gottlieb?” Chau’s breath was hot against his neck. “Makes me want to lick you all over, all up and down this pretty long neck. Mhh, my hell”—he circled his fingers lower, closer to the button at the apex of Hermann’s open shirt— “what were those knuckleheads thinking, leaving all of this unspoiled? Ah well. More for me.”

Hermann squirmed and wrinkled his nose as Chau licked up his neck again.

“You need to safeword, Mouthy?”

“No. But I’m still not certain what I think of it.”

“Mhh, good. Cuz I’m not done with you yet.” Another lick, this one wetter than the others. Hermann pulled a face again, then gasped as Chau blew across the skin he had just laved.

“O-oh!”

Chau chuckled against his earlobe. “Yeah, thought you might like that, gorgeous.” He proceeded to lick and blow, lick and blow, lick and blow across the contours of Hermann’s neck until every angle tingled as if bathed in melt water.

“Heads up. Here comes phase two.”

Before Hermann could ask what that meant, Chau’s incisors closed against the flesh along his scalene muscle and tugged.

Lightning sizzled through Hermann’ shoulder, along his back, and down, down, down into his curling toes; he nearly shot off Chau’s lap.

“Easy, easy.” A large hand pressed against his belly as the heavy thighs shifted beneath him, drawing him back, repositioning him. Laughter rumbled behind his back—not mocking but fond. “Bad? Or unfamiliar?”

“U-unfamiliar,” Hermann panted when he finally managed to move his mouth around the syllables. “But—good, I think. Most certainly good.”

Chau licked the skin, blew across it, and bit harder.

Hermann yelped as the thunderbolt flashed again. This time, the arm around his shoulders circled his waist like a seatbelt. A third bite, a fourth, a fifth, and he understood why he needed it there; he couldn’t seem to stop shivering, squirming, or sliding—really, he thought dimly, it was a miracle he hadn’t spilled to the floor like mercury yet.

Something firm and warm jabbed against his coccyx. Hermann instinctively rubbed back against it, and bit his lip as it flowered.

“Mhh, you feel that, pretty?” Chau asked after another bite. “You feel what you’re doing to me?”

Hermann’s eyes shot open. “Oh my,” he stammered. “But, surely, I’m not—”

“My lap. Smoking hot, mouthy boy. Squirming like a jellyfish. Do the algebra, professor,” Chau growled. This time, when his lips puckered over Hermann’s pulse point, Hermann’s lips parted. His jagged breath rusted into a squeak, then ground into a low, shuddering moan that heated him all the way to his ears.

He had only ever made that sound for desserts, tea, a rare day when stretching his leg didn’t hurt!

Two of those sand-scratch fingers toyed with his fourth button. “Wanna touch you more,” Chau murmured, that solid warmth against his tailbone insistent now. “It okay if I—” He dipped two fingers a centimeter beneath that shiny pearl button.

Hermann’s vertebrae popped as he nodded, and immediately, Chau’s entire hand was beneath his shirt, a knife-edge between his pectorals, a starfish bloom across them, a bite against his right nipple.

“Oh!” Hermann whispered. “Oh.”

“You wanna take yourself out and beat off, kid, I won’t mind.”

“I—I don’t think—” But truthfully, Hermann had no idea what he did or did not think.

“Trust me; you do _not_ want to go home with spunk cooling in your drawers. Especially with it pissing rain out there.” Chau’s arm departed his waist, and one massive thigh shifted beneath him; the hand returned bearing a red handkerchief shot through with golden thread. “Here. You ever use a fuckrag? Well, this’s the nicest fuckrag you’ll ever see. And don’t worry, gorgeous; I’m not a gentleman, but I promise not to peek while you twist one off. See? Can’t look if I got my mouth full.”

This time, he sucked on Hermann’s pulse point as if it were a straw.

“I—I truly—Mr. Chau, we hardly—”

“Promise,” Chau repeated before surging back to the patch of flesh.

Hermann fumbled with the placket of his dove-gray trousers. The zipper was easy—it took him only a few tries, even though the excitement was doing nothing to help his tremors. The button, however, made him seethe. Of all the times for his confounded fingers to stumble!

Chau’s lips eased off, but Hermann could feel his nose pressed solidly behind his ear, a whistle of breath stirring his hair.

“You ever been told how good you smell,” Hannibal murmured. “Jasmine oolong, chalk dust, honey, cock…”

Hermann swallowed. Chau had kept his word about giving him privacy.

A final tug and the button opened at last. Hermann slid his trembling right hand beneath the waistband of his briefs and rolled them down. His member sprang up as if pleased to see him. Blushing, Hermann immediately swathed himself in the handkerchief and tugged.

“Forgot to ask,” Chau breathed against his ear, “your equipment in working order?”

“I—” Hermann wondered if his face were as red as it felt. Which was now something akin to radioactive.

“Third rule: no embarrassment. In my line of work, kid, I see injuries and wounds and scars you’d never believe. I’m not gonna laugh at anything you say or don’t say, or anything you show me or don’t show me.”

“Yes.” Hermann swallowed and closed his eyes. “Yes, I believe so.”

“You believe so.”Chau shifted Hermann back against his chest, and the bulge of heat nestled once again in the cleft of his rear. “How many times do you whack off a week?”

Hermann tugged at himself again as he thought. “I’ve seen no reason to count,” he admitted.

“Okay, so we’ll say maybe once, twice a month?”

“I am trying to save the planet from an extinction event, Mr. Chau,” Hermann snapped as he tugged himself a third time. “I apologize, sincerely I do, but self-pleasure is hardly my priority!”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Hermann gasped as Chau’s large right hand closed around Hermann’s. “Maybe it should be. You’re so tense, Mouthy. Stiff as a nail when we stated out. But you know something?”

He swiped his thumb across one of Hermann’s nipples.

“You’re a hell of a lot calmer now, huh?” he asked when Hermann had stopped moaning.

“Y-yes, well—obviously, I—”

“Is it the hands?” Again that matter-of-fact tone. “Because we can work with that.”

“Often,” Hermann admitted. “My left is worse, of course, but my right –my dominant hand—is hardly coordinated.” He had always been a clumsy child: awkward, slow of reflex, as if his body and its driving force had perhaps flirted, but never become familiar, as if it were a Jaeger he was piloting alone.

Injury and stress had made them even greater strangers.

“I suppose,” Hermann said after a moment, “it frustrates me. Many things do. And I’ve only so much energy for the frustrations that truly matter—and in the great food chain of being in which we now find ourselves, I’ve plenty to occupy my energy.”

“Show me how you do it.”

Hermann looked over his shoulder. Chau gazed back at him, his expression once again inscrutable; the chandelier cut light across his dark lenses of his goggles.

“Let’s say I was coming to you to learn about, oh, calculus. Because I wanted to be a mathematician for some reason,” he said. “What’s the first thing you’d tell me to do?”

“Why, work all of the problems you can.”

Chau smirked and waved an index finger at him. “And if I kept, let’s say, trying to add where I need to subtract—hell if I know how calculus works—you’d correct me, right?”

“Yes.” Hermann swallowed.

Chau nodded, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, you see where this is going. So start doin’ some math, kid.”

Hermann tightened his grip around his silk-covered cock and pulled up it. Once. Twice. It felt pleasurable, certainly, but rote—why had he never seen it that way before.

“Okay.” Chau’s hand closed around his lightly. “If this was a math problem, Mouthy, you’d be subtracting where you should be adding. If I press on this”—he lightly tapped Hermann’s fingers—“am I gonna hurt you?”

_It hurts._ The memory suddenly unspooled . A San Francisco hospital. The young physical therapist pressing down on the knuckle of his index finger, forcing it to uncurl.

_You’re doing so well, Dr. Gottlieb._

Tears clouding her into a dark-brown blob, a corona of black curls. Stringing down his face, his heart an anvil, his arm an inferno of pain.

_Thank you, Ms. Fadel._ His voice a jangled thing of glass shards and tin shavings.

_If you need a minute—_

_No. No, thank you. Please continue. The sooner I can hold a pen again, the better._

Hermann doubted anything Chau could do in this context that would cause him so much as a twinge. “No. Moderate pressure is fine.”

Those heavy fingers wrapped around him tightly and shifted his own.

“Yeah, the thing about cocks,” Chau explained, “is you typically need to get a rhythm. Guessing that’s a problem with your hand?”

“I don’t know,” Hermann admitted. “It does tire after a while when performing a repetitive motion without rest.”

“Hmm, yeah. I don’t think you need to be pulling as hard. You got a sensitive little body, Mouthy. So much so, I could probably make you come without doing any of this. Let up on it a bit, and try some stroking. Like this—”

Hermann nearly fell sideways as Chau’s nails scraped over his testicles.

“Yep,” Chau laughed. “Thought that’d do it. It’s not just about choking yourself. It’s about finesse.” His fingers next stroked across the head of Hermann’s member. “Uncut, huh?”

“My pa—” Hermann swallowed down a moan. “My parents thought circumcision both cruel and unnecessary.” _And Bubbe nearly disowned Mother for that choice._

“Can I show you something? I’ll have to move part of this handkerchief.”

Hermann averted his gaze. “Yes.”

The hem of the silk scraped against his glans, then fell away, momentarily chilling him despite the room’s heat.

A chuckle rumbled against his back. “It’d help if you watched the demonstration, Mouthy.”

Hermann faced forward again.

Using his thumb and index finger, Chau eased Hermann’s foreskin back, then swiped the pad of his thumb across the tip of his member.

“O-ohh!”

“Hold still, Gottlieb.” Chau locked his other arm around his waist and pulled him back. “Can’t jerk you off if you keep trying to make friends with the floor.”

“Sorry,” Hermann panted.

“No problem. How sensitive you are, it’s probably a little overwhelming.” Chau swept his thumb across the engorged head a second time, and lightning shot down both of Hermann’s legs.

“Oh my goodness! Saints preserve me!”

“Cute,” Chau rumbled, but there was no malice or mockery in his tone. “Okay, now you try.” He sculpted Hermann’s fingers around his penis. “No, relax your grip, gorgeous. Yeah, like that, good. Now, let’s see what this does.” He slid Hermann’s fingers up his shaft and twisted them sharply just before they reached the top.

“Oh!”

“Good?”

“Please…” Hermann panted. “Please, again.”

Chau guided his fingers through the motion a second time, then swiped his thumb across the slit of Hermann’s dripping penis. “Think you got it?”

“Yes.…” Hermann’s fingers still shook, but the gentler motion was far easier to perform—and far more pleasurable. By the fourth stroke, Hermann felt his testicles pull up against his body. He covered himself with the handkerchief just seconds before the ejaculation boiled up from him.

“Oh my,” he whispered as he continued to stroke himself. “Oh my. Oh, oh heaven help me.”

“Good boy,” Chau whispered, nuzzling Hermann’s hair as the younger man recovered. “Good boy. Here…gimme a kiss.”

“A kiss?” Hermann looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. His body was trembling, but not in the way his hands did; he felt light, floating, as if someone had just put a soft-focus lens over the room.

“Yeah,” Chau murmured as he trailed a thumb around Hermann’s lips; Hermann barely resisted the urge to suck it into his mouth and nibble.

_How peculiar._

“Isn’t that an unusually intimate act?” he asked.

“You mean jerking you off wasn’t intimate?” Chau chuckled, but again without mockery. “Nah. I’m not all uptight and sentimental about it. Guys who don’t do kissing! I mean, my hell. Romance novel crap. Now c’mere.”

Romance novel foolishness though it may have been, Hermann could not help but shiver as Chau carded his hair with one large hand and used his other to turn Hermann’s neck with a touch along his jawline. “God, you got a nice mouth on you, gorgeous. Here…”

Hermann screwed up his face, expecting the kiss to be sloppy, slippery, and worst of all _wet_. Instead, Chau’s lips were dry, firm, slightly chapped—scratchy in that pleasant way his fingers were. Hermann’s lips parted in a manner he could only describe as instinctively, and Chau’s slotted into them. Rough skin and nubby incisors tugged, pinched, nibbled.

_This is my first kiss_ , he realized.

He hoped it would be the first of many with this man.

Hermann whimpered as Chau released him and pressed their foreheads together.

“Mhh, yeah,” the older man whispered. “How you feeling, gorgeous?”

Hermann couldn’t think of the correct words. “Well,” he said at last.

“Good to hear.” Chau kissed the left corner of his lips and shook his legs beneath him. “Okay. Off you get now.”

So soon? Hermann slid onto the sofa next to him, frowning. Had he displeased?

Chau lumbered off the sofa and arched his back into a stretch with a groan.

“Is something wrong?” Hermann asked as Chau strode back to the table.

“Nope.” Chau hefted a chair from the table and carried it back into the lounge area, where he placed it across from the sofa. He grunted as he eased his bulk into it and leaned back. “It’s like chemistry class, doc. I gave the demonstration, now you do the experiment. Oh…” His hand moved to the bulge in his trousers and worked the zipper. “You mind if I beat off watching you? You don’t have to look,” he said as Hermann felt his face heat yet again.

“No—that is, no, I don’t mind,” Hermann corrected as he shifted his hips.

“Oh, and no handkerchief this time—not ’til you’re about to come. Aw, don’t give me that fishy look, Mouthy—if we’re gonna do this thing, I’m gonna get real familiar with your downstairs. Might as well get the show on the road tonight.”

“I—”

Chau held up two fingers. “Remember rule two. You wanna use your safeword?”

Hermann hesitated, then averted his gaze as he let the silk whisper through his fingers and onto his thigh.

“Yeah,” Chau rumbled. “That’s what I like to see.”

“Mr. Chau.” Hermann swallowed. “I don’t know if I—that is, I have never successfully…ejaculated twice in one evening. Not since my early youth.”

“Always a first time for everything.”

“Yes…a moribund cliché if ever one existed,” Hermann said, but he feathered his fingers around his member, regardless.

“Well, try thinking of something sexy,” Chau suggested with a grunt—Hermann supposed he had finished with his zipper and buttons. “You do that when getting off, right?”

From anyone else, it would have been an impudent question, a burlesque of a question. But from Chau, it was only ever sincere curiosity.

“Yes,” Hermann admitted, face warming even further.

“What kind?”

Hermann sucked his lower lip into his mouth. _The only ones I’ve had for the better part of a decade._

“Hey. Eyes over here, gorgeous.”

He cut them in Chau’s direction, deliberately keeping his gaze above the older man’s shoulders.

“Rule number four.” Chau held out the same number of fingers. “No lying. I ask you a question, you tell me the truth. And tit for tat—you ask me a question, I gotta answer.”

“Unless rule number two applies.”

Chau’s chin jerked back in a snort. “You catch on fast, Mouthy. You sure you don’t want a job here?”

“Then, Mr. Chau, I’m terribly sorry, but I must insist on entrails in this case.”

He half expected Chau to overrule him. Instead, the gangster held up both hands, spreading his fingers wide, the smirk on his face entirely self-effacing. “Okay, Gottlieb. Your call.”

“As easy as that?”

“Easy as pie. That’s what a safeword’s for. Now spank off for me, pretty.”

Hermann looked to the side again and opened the catalogue of fancies through which he rarely let himself page.

Newton.

The thought of his name alone here, in this room, in this erotically charged context, made his member firm with interest.

The leaves of this catalogue were sparse indeed, for he permitted himself few fantasies of the frustrating biologist—the alien landscape of the Kaiju’s Anteverse itself, after all, had been far more familiar to him before tonight than had the undiscovered country of sexuality. Still, biology would out, and the flesh often knew what to crave even when the mind and spirit did not speak its language. And oh, but it craved Newton. The ridiculous wave of his gelled black hair. His tight jeans and noisy boots. The shrillness of his voice. His smell.

Coffee. Ammonia. Sugar. Musk.

Hermann closed his eyes and twisted gently up his arousal.

Newton. Putting his mug down and stepping over the duct tape demarcation line in their laboratory.

Pinning him against his chalkboard. Running smooth palms down his trembling neck. Up beneath his shirt. Down his sides.

His infuriating lips, chapped like Chau’s, but softer, kissing a line down his neck as he divested Hermann of jacket, sweater, shirt, undershirt, belt, shoes, trousers, underthings.

Newton taking him against the wall of their laboratory, pressing into him firmly, insistent, repeating his name like a novena.

_Hermann. Hermann. Hermann. Yes. Yes. Hermann…._

Left leg wrapped around his waist—for the landscape of desire could be free of limits, of injury, of stiff joints and screaming pain if the actor so wished—yes, angled open for Newt as he took him fast, rough, greedy as he ever was for everything.

And then…oh, then.

To lie in Newton’s arms to touch and be touched, to kiss and be kissed. To love him.

Hermann barely had time to cover himself with the handkerchief before he came so hard his head swam.

“Hell, Mouthy. Hope you decide to let me in someday on what you were thinking about just now.”

Hermann’s eyes snapped open, and he turned his gaze across the room. Chau’s gold-plated teeth glimmered in the low light; Hermann noted with relief that he had put himself away and was no longer straining against his trousers. That was that, then—though a part of him wished he had attended to the other man’s pleasure.

“Yes, well…” Hermann shrugged, feeling very much the fool. What could he possibly say to that?

“Anyway,” Chau said as he hefted himself to his feet once again, “you did good tonight, kid. A for effort, but C-minus for technique—oh, don’t give me that pouty mouth; you’re inexperienced, sure, but I gotta be fair with grades. Any teacher’ll tell you that much.”

“You’re jesting at me, Mr. Chau; I dislike that.”

“Woah there. Wasn’t finished yet, sonny, so stop packing up your book bag. Any teacher worth their salt’ll also assign homework. So.” He clapped his hands once. “Your assignment for the week? Keep getting yourself off, and figure out what gets you off—generally; you don’t need to tell me about whoever it was you were imagining just now, but things’ll be a hell of a lot more interesting around here if I know when I’m turning your crank instead of just spinning my wheels. Get the picture? And watch some porn.”

“Absolutely not. Entrails.”

Chau raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like it or it’s unfamiliar?”

“I haven’t enough experience to say. I refuse to have experience with it because of ethics.”

Chau’s eyebrow climbed higher. “Kid, I’m a pretty tolerant guy. But I gotta say, if you’re refusing to _watch_ people fool around after fooling around with a strange guy for a Kaiju goodie bag, then I gotta say I do not get your brand of religion at all.”

“No, it’s hardly that,” Hermann said as he wiped the mess from his now-flaccid member. “I have concerns about the actors’ safety and health—about their consent. If I were to play any part in exploitation or sex trafficking, Mr. Chau, even unknowingly, I would never forgive myself.”

Chau nodded. “You’re a rare creature, Gottlieb: a good man.”

Hermann shook his head. “I am stubborn, prideful, vain, cold, judgmental, quick to anger, slow to forgive, and many more unsavory things. No human is good, Mr. Chau. Only God is good. Indeed, I live in mortal terror of people who profess that they are good, and right, and pure.” He pushed away the image of his father before it could form.

“Huh.” Chau cocked his head and chuckled. “Didn’t figure you for a religious man, Gottlieb—just an uptight one.”

“Indeed, I am,” Hermann said with a smile as he put his clothes to rights. He chuckled as Chau laughed, realizing exactly how that had sounded. “Yes. I suppose I am both. I converted to Catholicism shortly after my twenty-fifth birthday. To encapsulate a very long story, let us just say that surviving a Kaiju attack when one should by all logic have perished tends to force one to rethink their life and its trajectory.”

“Yeah, guess that makes sense. But, uh…I’m pretty sure the pope doesn’t approve of pretty much this entire evening.”

“Then how fortunate for us that it is not the pope’s business,” Hermann said as he set the handkerchief aside.

“That doesn’t sound like a very Catholic response.”

Hermann chuckled again. “As I seem to be saying very often of late, I am not a typical Catholic.”

“Yeah, so I gather.”

“This is a matter between my conscience and God, Mr. Chau. No one else has any claim to it. And yes, that is absolutely Catholic doctrine, before you ask.”

“Hey, I’m not one to judge,” Chau said as he returned to the couch. “I mean, I’m pretty sure there’s only religion in the world that’d take me as a member, and I’m not about to join those junkies over at the Church of the Kaiju down the street.” He offered Hermann his arm and handed him his cane. “It’s getting late, Mouthy. Let’s discuss those monster goodie bags and get you home before you turn into a papal pumpkin.”

Hermann took the offered arm and levered himself to his feet. “I am to choose which parts I receive?”

“Wellllll,” Chau drawled, “Not exactly. But you did good tonight, got me real hot and bothered, so I’m in a generous mood. Whaddya have in mind?

“Tiamat,” Hermann said evenly. “I want the selection from Tiamat.”

Chau stopped walking toward the door so quickly, Hermann nearly ran into him. “No sale.”

“Oh come now! You said anything.”

“I asked what you had in mind, kid—and I shoulda figured all that sex had melted that big brain of yours into wax. No. Tiamat’s my hot ticket right now. Everyone wants a piece of that bastard. That’s how it goes for the first three months after a Kaiju attack. We can’t keep it on the shelves.”

“Very well. Orochi would be preferable, given what Dr. Geiszler has said about its unique attributes.”

Chau shook his head. “No can do, Gottlieb.”

“And why not?”

Chau slapped Hermann’s hand away as he tried to open the door. “Well, for one thing, it attacked Japan.”

“Is that a problem? You control the entire market in Asia.”

“Except Japan, Mouthy. That’s Yakuza territory. Always has been. So yeah, that’s a pretty big problem indeed.”

Hermann folded his arms across his chest. “Then I am not leaving until I have something of Tiamat to take with me.”

Chau slapped his hand as it touched the doorknob again. “Nope. My black market operation, my rules.”

Hermann took in a deep breath and counted to ten to keep the behemoth that was his temper leashed an caged.“Mr. Chau,” he said evenly, “though you may consider it a trivial and arbitrary cultural construct, I have given you something quite precious to me tonight.”

“Oh no,” Chau groaned, rolling his eyes heavenward.

“Yes. My virginity, which, atypical Catholic though I am, I had hoped one day to give to my spouse,” Hermann said, shoving thoughts of Newton away so quickly he scarcely thought them. “You have been the first to give me sexual pleasure, the first to watch as I came apart not once, but twice, before you. The first to hear me moan.”

He trailed his hands down Chau’s chest.

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Surely,” Hermann whispered, ignoring him, “that is worth a few scraps of a category 4 kaiju.”

“Oh my God,” Chau growled. “You are actually trying to se—what are you doing?”

Hermann clasped Chau’s hand in his own and raised it to his lips.

“What…?” Chau’s Adam’s apple worked furiously, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

Hermann brought it to his lips and gave in to his earlier strange urge to take Chau’s thumb into his mouth. He nibbled the pad, then caressed it with his tongue, enjoying the scrape of the callus, the taste of salt, heat, and something just a little bitter. He raised his gaze to Chau’s glasses and started to suck.

“Fuck me.” Chau ripped his hand away as if Hermann’s mouth had contained a hotplate rather than tongue and teeth. “Fine,” he growled. “I’ll see what I can do, but no more messing around.” He poked Hermann’s nose with his wet thumb pad. “And next week? You’re getting punished for that.”

Hermann had no idea what he meant, but he assumed it would be something sexual. “Yes, very well. Just take me to your storeroom. I want to see exactly what Dr. Geiszler is to be sent.”

“Aw, c’mon, don’t you trust me?”

Hermann tilted his head and raised both eyebrows.

“Anyway,” Chau said as he opened the door, “about your homework. It’s kind of a pain in the ass to find, but there’s a market for people with your ethical hang-ups.”

“Indeed?” Hermann took his arm and followed him down the warren-like corridor.

“Yup. Around 2016 or so, some do-gooders in Oregon and Seoul teamed up to start what I guess you’d call a cruelty-free certification for the porn industry. They check out sets, directors, whatever to make sure everyone’s being paid and treated well and actually wants to be there. Look up Red Light Worldwide. They’ll link you to something good.”

“Yes, thank you. That will be a tremendous relief.”

“Damned weirdest Catholic I’ve ever met,” Chau groused as they turned a corner.

“Why thank you.” Hermann beamed. “That is also a tremendous relief to hear.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermann makes a phone call and decides that homework must be done.

(Friday night.)

A pincher, a pituitary gland (he assumed, at least), and a section of the beast’s heart. Hermann had been most insistent upon the last of these, to the point that he had been forced to remind Chau that if death threats could not dissuade him, then glaring and growling would be even less effective. In the end, good sense had mercifully won out.

Chau had insisted on another kiss before letting him out into a waiting cab; for this one, he had eased Hermann against one of the shelves in the deserted storefront and nibbled his lower lip for a good minute before withdrawing, leaving Hermann feeling dizzy and rather heated.

“Oh, yeah, and one more thing, Mouthy,” he whispered, close enough to his earlobe to kiss it too. “Tell Pentecost to call off his guard dogs. One, they’re so obvious out there it’s embarrassing me”—he gestured beyond the door—“and two, it shows a lack of trust that I find…irritating. If I was gonna kill you or hurt you, I’d’ve done it by now. I ain’t a sadist, kid—unless you think you’d like that.” He ran his knuckles over Hermann’s cheek. “You be good now.”

On the ferry half an hour later, Hermann huddled in both his parka and blanket as he caressed the spot. He could still feel the scrape of those knuckles, skin rough beneath the faded images of birds. Could still feel Chau’s hand moving his fingers into place around his penis—a tactile afterimage.

The dizzy feeling had not completely gone away, either. Hermann wondered at first if he was taking ill, but the sensation was not unpleasant. Quite the contrary, he felt buoyant, as if some incorporeal part of himself were floating in warm water.

Relaxed, he realized. This must be what relaxation felt like.

Not bad, but unfamiliar.

He worried the feeling would lull him to sleep; the last thing his leg and hip needed after the swelling from walking and from this incessant rain was to be crumpled in an unnatural position for forty-five minutes. However, as the Shatterdome’s floodlights approached, Hermann realized not only that he had yet to yawn once, but that he felt strangely invigorated. Focused.

The entire sensation was not something to which he was at all accustomed.

The marshal’s bleak opinion about the mission had not changed, though he was gratified to hear that K-Science would be receiving useful Kaiju specimen on Monday. He was also, Hermann thought, somewhat chagrined to hear that the soldiers he had sent to protect his operative had only embarrassed themselves and annoyed their new business associate. Begrudgingly, he agreed not to waste their time again and instead insisted that Hermann phone both upon entering and departing Chau’s—well, “lair” sounded ridiculous, but somehow they both kept calling it that. Further, if he was not home by exactly 0200 or had not called ahead, Pentecost made it clear that, embarrassing irritant or not, he would send reinforcements.

Really, it made Hermann feel all of fourteen again. Not that he’d ever so much as imagined breaking a curfew—indeed, no one had ever assigned him one. Until now, he had never had reason or opportunity to go against such a stricture, so no one had ever thought to impose one.

He stroked the pout of his lips and smiled. It was wrong to feel this way, but he rather liked the idea of being held in some suspicion—though, he supposed, the suspicion was really against Chau and not himself.

As he exited Pentecost’s office, Hermann evaluated his options for the rest of the evening and decided he supremely disliked most of them. Due to the infrequency of the ferry after 2300 on Friday nights, it was now well after 0100—which meant that Newton was probably deep into his fifth cup of coffee and currently screaming at animated elves on his computer screen, therefore returning to their quarters to get some rest was unadvisable.

Even were Newton asleep, or doing something quiet and sensible such as reading, Hermann reflected as he walked down the hallway, he did not particularly want to see him right now. There would be questions—there were always questions with Newton even when one constantly told him to mind his own affairs. And with questions, there would be lies, and with lies, guilt. And guilt was an enemy to the easy, floating feeling suffusing his body and mind. 

A cup of tea, he decided. A nice hot cup of tea would take the chill from his limbs. And thankfully, he could acquire one in the laboratory, which was only one floor up from this.

He suddenly wanted very much to be there.

Newton’s half of the lab was, as always, empirical evidence of the second law of thermodynamics in action—the ever-disintegrating right side of the room somehow contributed to the equilibrium of the whole.

Still, Hermann thought as he brushed some squishy effluvia over the taped line with his cane, it would be nice if Newton would clean up his own messes from time to time.

The chalkboards looked down on him like skyscrapers—just as tall, just as barren, just as disquieting.

He hadn’t written on them in a week.

Hermann put his back to them and readied the kettle on the hotplate—to avoid frequent trips to the commissary or inconvenience to its overworked and undersung staff, he had long ago decided to keep tea supplies in this room as well as his quarters. He filled one of the metal balls with a teaspoon of a lovely jasmine white tea and readied his teacup.

The boards were waiting when he turned around again.

“Oh, do stop looking at me that way,” he told them. “You aren’t being a bit helpful.”

_I’m talking to my office supplies. Wonderful._

Since the event of last weekend, Hermann had run and rerun the research behind the predicative model through his mind, quite past the point of exhaustion. Time and time again, he could only come to the same conclusions.

“So what on earth am I missing?”

_Perhaps the model is fine; perhaps the problem lies with my data._

Hermann’s eyes widened.

The thought had crossed his mind, of course, but fleetingly; there had been so much to take care of—the funeral, his father, this assignation with Chau, and naturally Newton being Newton—that he had not had much time for it. In the past, after all, the technicians he oversaw had checked the readings on the Breach and corroborated them with other organizations and governments doing the same. Since losing his entire staff, the practice had, much to his regret, rather fallen by the wayside. Now, instead of looking at data patterns to check the efficacy of his model, the Shatterdome had no option but to trust it to work; that they had no choice but to depend upon a faulty relay station to hear of the last attack appalled and humiliated Hermann.

Erroneous data, then. The possibility was more than a phantom—it was as clear, cold, and sharp as ice, and he could not push it aside.

The shrill of the kettle jolted him from contemplation and summoned him to the hotplate. Minutes later, with a proper cup of fragrant tea and two cinnamon biscuits, Hermann sat at his computer, stretched his left leg out, and called up the logs for Gauss, Lovelace, Turing, and Franklin—or as Newton insisted upon calling the Shatterdome’s four acoustic tomographic moorings near the Breach, Squirtle, Mudkip, Magikarp, and Hermann Is A Weenie. The devices monitored the Breach’s temperature by analyzing the sound waves it put forth—and temperature was a factor they could not ignore, as the Breach’s heat always increased dramatically just before an event.

If something had gone wrong with any one of the moorings…

Hermann called up Franklin (“Mudkip”) and Turing (“Squirtle”) first and placed their output for the past two weeks side by side. He scrolled through both slowly, checking each line as he sipped his tea. He then compared them to the readings from one month previous, then two months, then three, paying particular attention to the conditions surrounding the Kaiju events during this time.

The data surrounding last week’s double event showed a slight increase in temperature, but nothing that fell outside normal parameters.

Hermann frowned and bit into a biscuit.

Of course, he would have to look at readouts from all four moorings in concert to have a clearer picture, so this could well be meaningless. But the clock on his monitor now displayed 0505, and the floating, relaxed feeling was slowly turning into one of heaviness and languor.

He would need to make a call first, however, before he retired.

Every scientist had their rival. Tesla had Edison, Tycho Brahe had Nicolaus Reimers, and Hermann had Dr. Alyce Kettering of the Los Angeles Institute for Kaiju Research, who believed his predicative model and the tomography that buttressed it were misguided at best, rubbish at worst—indeed, Hermann was not so humble that her research and its assaults upon his own did not sting. However, he thought as he inserted the earpiece of his headset and clicked the SkypeRED icon, ego had no place in wartime—especially a war that depended so heavily upon accurate science.

The line to LAIKR rang thrice before the call was picked up, and the owner of a cheery feminine voice connected him to Dr. Kettering’s office after taking his name. For a moment, Hermann feared Kettering would not be in, or that his call would go ignored. He breathed a soft sigh of relief upon hearing her deep contralto through the headset.

“Dr. Gottlieb, hello. How may I help you?”

Cordial enough, but cautious; and really, Hermann thought, she had every reason to be. Outside of the odd summit, they had never really spoken. And she did rather consider him to be a complete clod pot.

“Dr. Kettering, good afternoon,” he said. “I sincerely apologize for the interruption.”

“It’s no bother, doctor, but I am a bit surprised,” Kettering replied. “Isn’t it pretty late in your neck of the woods?”

“Yes,” Hermann agreed. “Well past 0500.”

“Well, whatever is behind you calling me up at 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday definitely sounds like something that would pique my interest.”

Hermann took the last sip of his now-icy tea. “Dr. Kettering, I will be candid, for I’ve no time not to be. I have called you because you are the staunchest detractor of my work, and because I believe that your criticisms may be correct.”

The silence stretched on so long, Hermann became convinced that Kettering had hung up on him, thinking this was his idea of a joke.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. Run that by me again?” she said at last.

“My predicative model did not account for last week’s Kaiju attack on Hong Kong and Japan, nor did I anticipate a double event. I am currently analyzing the data from our four moorings to see if the problem lies in an equipment malfunction. If I may ask, did your own model anticipate this event, or one like it?”

“Dr. Gottlieb, please slow down,” Kettering said. “I don’t understand. Why can’t your team run the analysis?”

“Because as of November 1 of last year, my team has consisted solely of Dr. Newton Geiszler and me.”

“What?” Kettering’s tone was incredulous and, if Hermann was not mistaken, far less than pleased.

“The impending closure of the last Shatterdome necessitated several budget cuts. We tried everything we could to keep at least a skeleton crew; unfortunately, we failed. Dr. Kettering,” he pressed on when she did not respond, “if your model is indeed the correct one, the PPDC must implement it immediately. I assure you, I have no agenda here other than the truth.”

“Yes, Dr. Gottlieb. I have never thought otherwise,” Kettering said. “To answer your question: our model predicted three possible dates for last week’s event—none were exact, but one was for five days after the event.”

Hermann could not help but smile. “My own model held that the next attack would occur two weeks later than it did. Dr. Kettering, this is extraordinary. Would you consent to the sharing of data between LAIKR and PPDC K-Science?”

“Dr. Gottlieb, you do realize how many trustees I’ll have to wade through to get permission for that, right?”

“Yes, but surely—”

“And that I’m notorious for not giving a damn what those trustees think?”

Hermann chuckled. “Replace ‘trustees’ with ‘the United Nations,’ and you have a reasonable approximation of my own feelings.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. Send me the specs for what you need, and send me what you’ve got.”

“Yes…thank you, Dr. Kettering. I will do so at once.”

“Dr. Gottlieb?”

“Yes?”

“I know I’ve been harsh on your work in the past, but it really is an honor to be working with you. LAKIR was beginning to get way too academic for my taste.”

Hermann’s smile widened until it merged with the floating sensation suffusing his body. “The feeling is mutual, Dr. Kettering. I am in your debt.”

“Mhm,” Kettering chuckled. “Just don’t pull a Crick and Watson on me, and we’ll call it even.”

“Never in my wildest dreams.”

After a few more minutes of working out the specifics of the exchange, they hung up. Hermann considered brewing a cup of stronger tea before a yawn rippled through him. Somewhere during the call, the floating feeling had become even heavier, less clear, and far muzzier.

Hermann did not at all like the prospect, but he supposed that meant he needed to sleep. After sending Dr. Kettering the requested files, switching off the hotplate and rinsing his mug, he locked the door and returned to his quarters, where he prayed he would not find Newton awake and wanting to speak with him.

Happily, the room was dark, save for Newton’s pipe dream of a screensaver, and the desk lamp on Hermann’s side of the room—which he most certainly had not left turned on when he was last in their quarters.

Hermann felt a blush crawl across his face as he looked over at his sleeping colleague. Once again, Newton seemed incapable of distinguishing between underwear and pajamas, a fact which Hermann found very distracting, considering that Newton had fallen asleep with his back toward the room. It was not yet quite as colorful as his chest, but Hermann knew the Kaiju there by heart—Karloff crawling down his shoulder, Hardship curling its tail around a hip, the grinning face of Arges across his trapezium.

Hermann coiled his right hand into a cylinder as he imagined climbing in beside Newton and sliding his fingers past the waistband of his ridiculous Godzilla boxer shorts and around his member. What would it feel like? Soft in sleep? Half hard from an erotic dream of whatever arcane fetish he liked this week?

Did Newton sometimes dream of him?

Hermann shivered. He liked the second option. Semi-hard, then, and responsive to Hermann’s fluttery touches. The smell of coffee, sugar, ammonia, and musk as Hermann kissed down the back of his neck, tugged at it with his teeth as Chau had done to his own tonight.

It was wrong to look upon Newton this way. To look with lust in one’s heart was disrespectful—it reduced the person gazed upon to an object. And after the lengths to which he had gone to fight the Kaiju, the dizzying number of the dead in their wake, the merest hint of objectification turned Hermann’s stomach.

However, lust was not at all what was in his heart. Love, on the other hand, desire, longing…

Hermann sighed as he touched the spot on his neck that Chau had worried—and winced. Frowning, he prodded it again and received similar results.

_What in the world?_

He realized the problem even before he had finished the thought.

“Oh dear,” he whispered.

“Hnngh,” Newton said lazily. “Hermann? That you?”

Hermann cupped his hand over his neck. “Yes, Newton,” he said quickly. “I am here. Safe. Please, go back to sleep.”

Really, of all the times for the frustrating creature to wake at the drop of a pin!

“Mhhm,” Newton said thoughtfully, “you like the light?”

 _What?_ Hermann’s gaze travelled to his desk lamp. _Oh. Yes, of course._ “It was atypically thoughtful of you, Newton, thank you. But I’m turning it off now, so please go to sleep.”

“Mh, sure, anything for you,” Newt said drowsily. “You’re so good, Hermann…like tea and chalk and…mhh, good stuff.”

He shifted on the bed, closed his arms around a pillow, and quieted.

Hermann counted out ten beats of his heart to make sure Newton had really nodded off before dashing to the bathroom so fast he nearly tipped over twice. His hand stumbled over, then pummeled the light switch.

He needn’t have worried; the synthetic fur that lined the hood of his parka hid the sides of his neck entirely. With shaking fingers, Hermann pushed it aside.

A blotch the size and color of a small, ripening plum was smeared across his throat. Hermann felt a bead of sweat roll down his back as he traced its outline with two fingertips.

“Oh dear,” he said again.

***

(Saturday morning.)

Beyond asking if he were more than usually cold that morning, Newton did not question the green fleece scarf Hermann had wound around his neck. A simple yes and the presence of his thickest jacket was enough of an answer, for Newton dropped the subject immediately in favor of poking through his tablet to find the appropriate “tunes” by which to dissect part of the previous week’s mysterious Kaiju shipment.

A shipment that no longer seemed quite so mysterious to Hermann after a brief tour through Chau’s storeroom. But why, he wondered, would Chau have sent specimen before any exchange of favors? The thought troubled him as he called up the data for the moorings Gauss (“Magikarp”) and Lovelace (“Hermann Is a—” yes, well). Chau was not the kind of man to give without expecting to receive. However, he also had more than a touch of whimsy about him.

Hermann did not appreciate it. Yes, the specimens were helpful, but their unexplained arrival had frightened Newton, and that he could not abide. He sincerely hoped Newton would believe the next shipment was simply the Chinese government finally getting its priorities in the correct order. Otherwise, he would have to contact Chau to concoct a believable story.

Oh dear saints. Why had he not done so the previous evening? Really, there was no excuse for that, even if Chau was alluring, and his caresses—

“Whatcha dooooin’?” Newton cooed, abruptly snapping Hermann from his reverie as he leaned over his shoulder. His tie fluttered into Hermann’s line of sight. Today it was a ridiculous fantasia on a cowboy’s bolo with an enameled Kaiju head serving as clip—Karloff, naturally. For some reason, that particular Kaiju commanded an adoration in Newton that more sensible people reserved for a favored celebrity. It would have been unnerving had it not been so innocently pathetic. He tried not to shiver as the leather coils—a sickly green to match the visage—brushed his scarf. At such close range, Newton’s scent was overpowering.

Coffee. Ammonia. Cinnamon. Musk.

Hermann resisted the urge to turn his head and nibble along that delightful throat the way Chau had demonstrated last night.

“Hermannnnn,” Newton whined. “What. Cha. Dooooin’?” He prodded his colleague’s shoulder with a knuckle.

“It’s no great mystery, Newton. I am analyzing the data from the other two moorings, as I explained to you.” They had discussed Hermann’s concerns about a possible equipment failure over breakfast, and Newton had agreed it should be checked thoroughly before Hermann tore his calculations apart any further.

“What, you mean Magikarp and Hermann is a Weenie?” Newton chirped as he poked at the monitor.

“Please don’t touch that. You know how I hate having your grubby fingerprints all over everything. And please stop referring to my equipment that way.”

Newton giggled at the word “equipment,” which only deepened Hermann’s frown.

“Really, Newton. My CCD students have years on you in maturity, and the eldest of them is twelve.”

As usual, Newton ignored him. “Dude wouldn’t it be ironic if Magikarp was the problem?”

“No, it would be neither ironic, nor amusing—the latter of which being what you truly mean, seeing as the definition of ‘irony’ apparently eludes everyone on this planet under the age of seventy-five.”

“God, _someone’s_ grumpy today,” Newton groused. “Your date stand you up last night? Or was it pretty hot, same as usual?”

Hermann counted to ten in Russian to keep his temper leashed. “I do not need to impress upon you the seriousness of this work, so your flippancy toward it is both a surprise and a profound disappointment—both of which I thought you incapable of ever inflicting upon me again until this exact moment. Now, if you’ve nothing to contribute to the situation—which we both know you do not— _kindly_ run along and play with your monster entrails.”

Entrails. Oh, a deeply unfortunate word choice!

“I know it’s important!” Newton protested, holding his gloved hands aloft. “That’s not the point!”

Hermann’s lips curled. “Then what, pray tell,” he said slowly, “is the point?”

‘You’re working when Pentecost said not to.”

“The marshal did no such thing. We are to go to supper tonight, Newton. That does not mean we are to be idle until the 1830 ferry.”

“Uh…yes he did, and yeah, it does.”

“A strange observation, indeed, for a man currently dissecting a”—Hermann waved helplessly at the table upon which Newton had spilled some of Chau’s largess—“whatever that mess used to be.”

“A spleen, Hermann. We in the field of _biology_ call it a spleen. And it’s actually really well preserved for a government sample. No mystery meat here! Anyway,” he continued, apparently catching himself before the Kaiju again abducted the small percentage of his brain that was not obsessed with the confounded things. “The point is, shoving my arms elbow-deep into alien biology is the most fun I can probably have without—uh, alone.”

“Ugh.” Hermann did not want that particular image—though hardly for the reasons Newton believed, no doubt.

“You, on the other hand, look like you’re about ready to get a double root canal while listening to Ben Stein recite A–M from a phonebook. Ergo, I’m having a blast, and you’re _working_.”

“‘Having a blast’ is not—”

“Dude, seriously. Magikarp and Hermann is a Weenie—”

“Don’t call them that—”

“Will still be here tomorrow, and isn’t Kettering’s team gonna take at least that long to get their shit ready to send you? Do something _relaxing_ , for fuck’s _sake_ before you pass out on me. Oh! I know! Rip up those shitty equations Amoretti puked out in _Mathematica_ last month!”

“What on earth for?”

Newton snorted. “Because you think he’s a crappy mathematician, baby! And poking holes in his numbers makes you pop—um, makes you smile.”

Hermann rolled his eyes heavenward. “Barring my immortal soul, there is little I would not trade for a day without your constant barrage of vulgarity.”

“Look,” Newton said, leaning his hand against the chalkboard’s sliding ladder and idly tugging it back and forth, “I remember when you read that paper last month. You threw the entire journal across the room! You wailed to the heavens and nearly tore your hair out. Dude, you wanted to _Hulksmash_ Oxford for even letting him walk through the gates!”

He picked up a piece of chalk and waggled it at Hermann.

“No, Newton.”

“C’mon,” he purred.

“My data—”

“Will be happy to see you Sunday. _Literally_ starry-eyed.” He continued waving the chalk. “Also, Hermann? If I have to deal with you being pissy tonight, when I haven’t even left this damn island since, like, last Halloween? I swear to God I will kill you with a chopstick. And trust me, man, you can do pretty deadly things with one of those. Especially the fancy enameled kind.”

Hermann sighed, closed out the program, and eased himself from his chair. “Very well. Since you won’t let me get an iota of work done otherwise.”

“See?” Newton twittered as he handed the chalk over. “Don’t I take good care of you?”

Hermann merely grunted and turned to fetch the journal upon which he had visited so much physical contempt one month previous.

He truly hated it when Newton was right.

Three hours into tearing apart some truly incompetent mathematics did much to ease Hermann’s anxiety over the moorings. Really, if Luciano Amoretti—or the Monarch to Hermann’s Dr. Venture as Newton insisted upon calling him, whatever that meant—wanted to build a quantum computer, he would never do so with this sloppy work. Said sloppy work also distracted Hermann from thoughts of who was responsible for the scarf currently wound around his neck. He would have to exchange it for a nicer one tonight, and of course pin it to prevent Newton from seeing the large horizontal bruise on the skin above his scalene muscle—the last thing he needed, truly, were more irritating inquiries about his “hot date.”

Really, why did Newton care so much? Hermann scrubbed out a 4 with the sleeve of his jacket and corrected it to a 5. He had been on plenty such “hot dates” in the past, and Hermann had not interrogated him about the place, time, and shenanigans! On the contrary, he had endured them patiently and with good humor, and only poured baking soda, salt, or an ounce of Dr. Bronner’s castile soap into his coffee when Newton’s choice was particularly obnoxious or objectionable. Such as that fool _Gipsy Danger_ technician Steve Durham, who barely even knew what science was beyond tightening bolts and—

The chalk snapped in his hand.

Hermann snorted and grabbed another piece.

Anyway, Newton really should stop prying. Any fleeting interest Newton could possibly have in sexual relations with his colleague and roommate—which likely could be accurately explained by curiosity about what Hermann looked like under “all those grandpa layers”—could not possibly warrant this sort of nosiness.

“Ahhhh!” said biologist groaned as he stretched up from his desk, arcing his chest forward. His belly strained against his white dress shirt, and Hermann shifted uncomfortably at the impression of one pebbled nipple. He did wish Newton would at least consider wearing a jacket or a proper lab coat, even if he was, apparently, a thermophile that had crawled from the ocean and sprouted five o’clock shadow and a grating American accent.

“Quittin’ time, dude!” he announced when Hermann looked at him blankly.

“It is only 1300,” Hermann informed him.

“That’s right! Thirteen hundred on our day off,” Newton said as he hefted the Kaiju spleen up into his arms. “And I promised Raleigh I’d go over my theories about that acid tail-cannon thing on Tiamat with him. He and his techs are trying to figure out how to shield the Jaegers better now that they’re all spitting acid _Exorcist_ -style. Jesus, if I could only get my hands on a sample!”

That would be his next request, Hermann decided. Though, could Chau collect something quite so corrosive?

“Anyway,” Newton continued, “that should take me a couple hours, and then it’s time to get ready for dim sum! Therefore, quittin’ time.” He pivoted and dropped his messy burden into its vat of preservative and slapped the lid on, then stripped his gloves off and tossed them into the biohazard bin. “And you better not stay here poking around with Magikarp and Hermann is a Weenie, Hermann—”

“For the last time, please don’t—”

“Because I’ll know. They’ll tell me. And by that I mean I’ll look at the logs and they’ll tell me you were stressing yourself out. Okay?”

Hermann sighed. Really, that big-eyed, hangdog look could probably make him agree to converting to Calvinism, were Newton so inclined. “Very well,” he said. “You are absolutely insufferable.”

“Thanks! Coming from you that’s almost a complement!”

Hermann rolled his eyes and waved Newton out of the room.

He could, of course, stay and investigate Gauss and Lovelace’s records. Newton would be unhappy, but he would ultimately understand. However, dross though most of his advice had been, it did contain more than a few nuggets of gold: Kettering and her team would not have anything to tell him at least until next weekend—academic though it was in many ways, LAKIR was nonetheless a critical part of the United States’ Kaiju defenses, and its staff every bit as busy as he and Newton.

Delaying the data from Gauss and Lovelace by a day, even two, would neither keep them waiting nor distract them from other important work.

Which meant that Hermann now had three, perhaps four hours in which to conduct research of a different kind.

Unless Newton were called away on some specific errand or a one-on-one with Marshal Pentecost in the evening, Hermann would have little time in which their bedroom would be unoccupied. He could, of course, skip church or duck out for a few hours during work, but both prospects were extremely distasteful. And he did not think he would be able to accomplish much during his lunch hours, which he tried to abbreviate whenever he could.

Yes, now was the ideal time to attempt Chau’s homework.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermann uses a search engine for X-rated purposes. Hannibal receives a telephone call at an inopportune time. And what was Hermann thinking during that "date" with Newt, anyway?

Ten minutes later, Hermann was ensconced in their quarters, undressed in bed with a mug of lemon tea steaming on the desk beside him as he called up Google.

“Pornography,” he said as he typed “Red Light Worldwide” into the search engine and pressed Enter. Good heavens. Such a distasteful word.

The organization’s web page was simple, elegant, a fantasia of reds and golds that reminded him of Chau’s headquarters, though without the gaudy Orientalist theme.

He sincerely hoped Chau wasn’t involved in human trafficking. Shaking that thought away, he clicked to the organization’s mission statement and read through its code of ethics, its vetting processes, its standards. Satisfied with what he saw, he clicked to the links page, and frowned.

_Well, it…certainly is extensive._

That was just the trouble, though. He would rather have too few links than to be spoiled for choice. Whoever had designed the drop-down menu on the side, however, had apparently prepared for this. It seemed that one could sort them along several parameters. Hermann decided that “fetish” was perhaps as good a place to start as any.

Or perhaps not.

“Good heavens,” he murmured, adjusting his glasses. “I haven’t the slightest idea what at least ninety percent of these are.” He thought briefly of calling up a slang dictionary, but decided against it. He had time, yes, but four hours was certainly not a lot of it.

_Simplicity. I need simplicity._

Identifying known elements was an essential first step of interrogating any unknown, whether scientific or…whatever Chau classified his “homework” as. He opened a text document and typed, “Sexual Acts That Interest Me” as a title. He then clicked the icon that would generate a bulleted list and hit Enter.

“Kissing,” he typed. The dry, tongue-less kind in which Chau had engaged him, teeth tugging against his lower lip—pinching just enough to verge on but not cross over into pain.

Yes, kissing was most enjoyable. But it could hardly be the basis for an entire pornographic movie, let alone a single scene.

Handjobs? Chau’s thumb upon his slit had excited him—indeed, if Hermann were honest now in the clarity following the act, that rough thumb had probably done more to arouse him than had his own touch.

Surely, that could be enough substance for a short pornographic film at least. Upon further consideration, Hermann added “oral sex” and “anal sex” to the list. Naturally, he didn’t know for sure, but Chau had told him to find what interested him, and guesswork and a certain amount of exploration had to be part of discovery.

Unfortunately, “fetish” yielded no links for his four search items. “Sex act,” on the other hand, yielded a good number—though none, alas, for “kissing.” Supposing one video would be as good as another, Hermann hovered over a link to a site named “HotWetMen4U” and clicked.

“I must pay to access this?” Of course, Hermann realized, feeling rather chagrined. Really, what had he expected? Pornographic actors needed money just as anyone else did. And if Red Light Worldwide was being honest, these actors would see what they deserved of this money. Sighing, Hermann looked over the terms and conditions, acutely aware that time was slipping past. At least his credit card statement would show the charge as being made to Mango Bari, LLC rather than the site’s name. He did not relish having to explain to the fraud department that, yes, this was a legitimate purchase.

After he entered the details, the site took him to a list of galleries, which could only be sorted by actor name.

“Travis Gold,” Hermann read aloud. “Tommy Johnson… Rodd Hott? Well, clearly, that has to be a pseudonym.”

He glanced at his alarm clock: 1345.

“But at my back I always hear/Time's winged chariot hurrying near,” Hermann grumbled. 

If Red Light Worldwide had listed this site under “handjobs,” then it must stand to reason that all or at least a goodly number of videos featured the act. Though he disliked the idea intensely, Hermann supposed he would simply have to “guess.”

Mr. Gold had a warm smile, black hair, and lovely green eyes. He reminded Hermann vaguely of Newton—albeit a younger, more tanned, and more muscular Newton sans tattoos, stubble, and belly. And with perfectly straight teeth.

And a penis that looked to be at least nine inches in length.

“Oh my,” Hermann gasped, flinching. He lifted the blanket from his lap and peered down at himself. Indeed, his own genitalia looked quite small by comparison, but he was hardly aroused at the moment.

He had once read that the average length of an erect penis was approximately six inches. Was his own close to that? He had never thought to use a ruler. Would Chau mind if he was shorter? He had been silent on the matter last night, but perhaps it was merely out of politeness.

Hermann could not have been certain, given that he had not looked, but Chau’s member had certainly felt impressive when wedged against the cleft of his rear.

Surely he would not be so callous as to laugh at one’s immutable biological makeup. Oh, of course he had said he would not, but…well, the word of a gangster.

He was wasting time.

Hermann supposed Mr. Gold’s familiar appearance made him an ideal candidate for a first attempt. He clicked on the young man’s photograph and selected the first title he saw: _Summa Cum Loud_.

“An academic pornography?” Hermann said as the video buffered. “Oh, splendid.”

He coiled his fingers around his member and settled against his pillows to watch.

***

Two hours later, Hermann paused the seventh video he had attempted and ran a hand through his hair. He was sweating, yes, but not from arousal or even interest.

He was frustrated. More deeply so than he had been in years. And, quite frankly, he was deeply upset.

He did not understand why anyone would find these videos remotely arousing. A plumber who showed to “drill your hole, sir” and then proceeded to do so without wearing overalls! In that situation, Hermann would have called both the man’s supervisor and the authorities, not asked to be “drilled” himself! A “professor of sexology”—a field that certainly did not involve such abuse!—who held out a passing grade like a carrot to entice two fraternity freshmen—freshmen!—to engage in sexual acts in his office! Such a man should be kept from all universities by wild dogs if necessary!

The one involving a liaison between two fraternity boys and a pizza deliveryman (played flatly by Mr. Gold) was particularly galling. Throughout the entire thirty-minute fiasco, Hermann had felt as though the three were sharing some sort of joke that they expected him to be in on and refused to even give him a hint as to what that joke was.

The feeling made him want to scream. Made him want to hurl his mug across the room, claw his arms, and then crawl under the blankets and spend the rest of the day in tears.

_They’re not laughing with you, Hermann. They’re laughing at you._

The dean had tried to be kind, but in the end Hermann ha not understood why his calculus classes had become warzones. Why his students—seventeen and eighteen-year-old boys and girls—were always laughing in his presence. Why they ignored his lessons and whispered to each other.

So Herr Nast had, evidently, decided to be blunt—only the hand he had placed on Hermann’s shoulder had felt as heavy as judgment, not at all like grace.

_I’m sorry, young man. You are a talented mathematician—more than that; a polymath, a genius, and I do not use either term lightly. But we should never have allowed this experiment—for your safety and health as well as that of the students you are attempting to teach._

_Your students_. He had not said _your students_. As if admitting the mistake itself had shut a door, had made the idea impossible.

_You will make a fine mathematician, a brilliant engineer, I am sure. But you are still an eleven-year-old boy, Hermann. You ought to be playing with your friends. Learning to ride a bicycle. Daydreaming. We should never have let you teach students who are scarcely older than your sister, and for that I apologize. You need to be a boy first, Hermann; being a man can wait._

“Wrong,” Hermann whispered. “Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

That was always the problem, wasn’t it? He could not simply do as others expected when it came to anything—not religion, not family, not work or play or even movement itself.

And now he could not even have sex as others did.

The pressure behind his eyes blurred his vision, but he ground down the feeling.

Not again. Not for the second time in two weeks.

He was finished with weeping. Finished with it! He had wept a Dead Sea of tears from childhood on up, and what had it accomplished?

“Come on,” he snapped at his member. “You were very interested last night!”

But that was the problem. He had been interested because of Chau.

Chau who did not look or behave as if he had been removed from bubble wrap and wound up, who did not speak from a terrible script that demanded he behave irrationally. Who did not appear as if he had spent as much time in a gymnasium as Hermann did in his laboratory. Who was not sculpted well past the demarcation line between warm humanity and the uncanny valley.

He needed him, Hermann realized. He had to speak with him now.

But how? He hadn’t asked the man for a means of contacting him outside of showing up at his…lair. It hadn’t seemed necessary, and really, one simply couldn’t call a gangster up on the telephone to tell him—

Tell him what? That he could not complete his assignment? That their deal would have to terminate because he, Hermann, could never hope to understand his end of the arrangement? Could not hope to revel in illogic and exploitation and abuses of power and propriety?

The marshal. Marshal Pentecost must surely know how to reach him! Hermann grabbed for the mobile phone he typically kept charging on his desk and thumbed through his contacts. He would absolutely not use his laptop’s V2V interface, secure though Tendo insisted it was.

“Pentecost,” the marshal answered on the second ring.

Hermann swallowed. “Marshal? This is Dr. Gottlieb. I apologize for the intrusion, but I must know how to contact Mr. Chau. It is imperative that I call him at once.”

***

Hannibal liked it when they didn’t cry or scream. When they thought they were too tough for him just cause they were young and he was a fat old bastard in a loud suit and too much gold to be a real threat.

It spooled the party out longer.

Right now, Ming and Johnny Switchblade had Klein roped to a chair in the room Hannibal jokingly referred to as the Waldorf-Astoria. “Nicest accommodations I got for people that cross me,” he’d explained to Johnny, who’d grown up in a sleepy little town in Northern Idaho and was therefore always either asking stupid questions about the world or failing to grasp why his chosen last name was an embarrassment. When Johnny just stared at him, he’d elaborated, even though it ruined the joke: “You’ll check out right on time, but it might just cost you an arm and a leg.”

When you really pissed him off, he took you to the Bates Motel down the hall. It had four drains and an overhead sprinkler system for easy cleaning.

Johnny Switchblade had gotten that joke.

But probably not because he was a connoisseur of fine cinema.

“Tell me, Klein,” he said as he turned around to face the balding Austrian. “How long’ve you been here in Hong Kong? Two, three years?” he prompted when the man just made a tough-guy face. “No? Not gonna talk? Word of advice: that expression doesn’t make you look badass, man. It makes you look like you’re trying not to take a dump. Not really that impressive.”

Klein just glared. Hannibal sighed and paced toward him slowly as he slipped his hand into his jacket. The bailong was out and at his throat before he could flinch.

“Let’s try this again,” Hannibal said patiently, as if he were talking to a preschooler who just couldn’t grok that finger paints went on your fingers, not in your mouth. “Oh no you don’t, pal. You lean away from me, I stick this in your spleen or your left kidney. Ming’s choice.”

“I’m thinking kidney today, Mr. Chau,” Ming said helpfully. “I don’t like people that don’t fucking listen.”

“Mhm. Couldn’t agree more.” Hannibal trailed the knife under the guy’s chin, as if he were outlining a clown smile; Klein’s big Adam’s apple was fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. “Your last name means ‘tiny’ in German, and ever since you got off that plane from Vienna back in ’21 to grab up a piece of Hong Kong now most of the real dangerous folks have jumped ship, you’ve lived up to it. That’s why I’ve left you alone. Rolex knock-offs, fake Louis Vuitton. Tourist shit. Not me at all. But then, you had to go gassing about getting a piece of the Blu market where one of my people could hear. Let me tell you, brother, that wasn’t so smart. And it ain’t so klein. That is something I am very, very interested in.”

The cell receiver in his jacket rang.

Hannibal shoved a hand into his pocket and disconnected the call immediately.

“Anyway,” he went on, “my guy told your guy that you should back the fuck off my turf. Real polite, too—pretty sure you didn’t even say ‘fuck,’ right, Johnny?”

“That’s right, boss. I was a gentleman.”

Hannibal nodded at him and turned back to Klein. “So, you see my problem here? I fail to understand w—”

His receiver rang again.

Hannibal slapped it off with a grunt. Fucking Switchr, always malfunctioning at the worst fucking times. Why couldn’t people just use cell phones anymore? Worked fine for humanity in the 90s and 00s. God damn tablet shit.

“Why you disregarded me when I’ve been so generous to you,” he went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Correction: I don’t understand why you’d be so goddamned dumb or maybe just arrogant that you thought you could ignore a C&D from Hannibal Chau—especially one that didn’t come stapled to your guy’s forehead.”

The receiver chirped a third time.

Hannibal punched the End Call button extra hard this time.

“You wanna tell me your reasoning here?” he asked as he leaned in and tilted his head. “Speak nice and clear into the microphone, Klein. I wanna make sure I don’t misunderstand you.”

The receiver trilled yet again.

Christ’s sake.

“’Scuse me a moment.” Hannibal patted Klein on the shoulder and withdrew the knife from his throat. “Big fish, big pond means you ain’t my only appointment today. Try and relax for a sec before I start eviscerating you, yeah? It’ll hurt less.”

Flipping his knife closed, Hannibal pulled the earpiece from his pocket and jammed it in.

“What?” he snapped as he answered. “Pincushion, if this is you, so help me God, something had better be on fire out there or—”

“Mr. Chau?”

The voice was high and breathy, as if it was trying very, very hard to be brave. Not at all the shouting, poised know-it-all he had met in his lair two weeks ago.

He recognized it immediately, though, and yeah, it scared him a bit.

“Mouthy?” he murmured.

If that fucking Geiszler had made him cry, hand to God, he was going to that Shatterdome and cutting new assholes into every Kaiju tat the little hipster fuck had. Fuck Klein.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Chau,” Gottlieb said. “ I can’t—I don’t think I can—the pizza was the final straw, but the abominable abuse of academic authority was—I just—I don’t understand how to—I—”

Hannibal didn’t understand a lick of what the kid said then. He glanced over his shoulder; Ming and Johnny were staring at him, Klein looking a little more quizzical than afraid.

Hannibal held up an index finger before turning back around. “Okay, okay, slow down, kid. Say one sentence at a time,” he whispered.

“I cannot complete the assignment!” Gottlieb cried. “I’m sorry but I—I do not think I can look at pornography anymore. It is—it is heartless, soulless, sterile! Filth would be something! I would prefer filth, but—”

“Uh, kid? Kind of a bad time to talk about this,” Hannibal said.

“Dash it all, I don’t know what to do!”

Ahh, yes, there was the Gottlieb bluster, like a wind shrieking through a sad little rainstorm. A wind that still thought people said “dash it all” in 2025.

“Listen, you are playing the teacher!” Gottlieb went on. “Therefore, you should have expected your student to have questions! It is entirely natural when one is essaying a new field, and—”

“All right, all right!” Hannibal snapped. “Five minutes. Gimme five minutes. This a good number to reach you at?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Close the browser or whatever and try to calm down. Drink some tea. Or play with yourself. That felt good, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Hannibal said again. “I’ll be right there. Just hold your horses.”

He ended the call before Gottlieb could answer. Without bothering to remove the earpiece, he took a breath, straightened his tie, and turned back to face the trio.

Ming and Johnny were now looking at him as if he’d just sprouted tentacles and a Kaiju head. Klein was frowning, as if he wasn’t sure whether to be confused or even more fucking terrified.

“Well, how ’bout that?” Hannibal said breezily as he strolled back to the bound Austrian. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, Klein! Fortunately for you, something more important than your discipline problem just came up. So I’m gonna be a nice guy and let you off with a warning.”

Klein smiled as if he’d just been offered the entire Asian Blu market on a silver salver. “Oh, t-thank you, Mr. Chau! And I promise—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Hannibal waved off the obeisance as he pulled his balisong back out. “I said a warning, dipshit. Not that you’re off scot-free.”

Klein screamed as Hannibal thrust the knife into his left nostril and yanked upward in a single, fluid motion.

Yeah. Just like ballet.

“Oh God oh God oh my God!”

Hannibal ignored him as he wiped the blade on the man’s shirt. “Ming? Johnny? Go and drop this piece of shit in a gutter somewhere. Oh, and leave him our rhinoplast’s card. God knows he’ll need it, and I want the $500 finder’s fee. Should get something after this prick wasted our time.”

He exited without a backward glance. Ming and Johnny could clean up the mess, and he had better things to do.

***

Hannibal had never heard such a convoluted yarn.

“Okay, lemme get this straight,” he said as he relaxed on the chair in his office. “You’ve been trying to beat off to porn for the last two hours, but the plots upset you, you didn’t like the actors, and you felt like they were all in on some joke that nobody told you about but expected you to know? And after all that you aren’t even a little hard?”

“Yes,” Gottlieb said meekly. “Surely you see my dilemma.”

“Your dilemma,” Hannibal repeated thoughtfully.

Holy hell, Gottlieb was hopeless at sex.

And, well, Hannibal realized, he hadn’t actually helped him out there, either.

“No problem. Sounds like you just don’t like this kind of porn. And I’m sorry about that. And nope, not because you fucked something up,” he continued before Hermann could splutter out an insistence that he was broken or something stupid like that because, God almighty, the kid really seemed to hate the parts of himself that wanted anything that didn’t put the rest of the world’s five billion people first. “You knocked the nail right into the wood there when you said it: I’m the teacher; I can’t just throw calculus at you before you’ve got one plus one under your belt.”

“Yes. I…I suppose the metaphor is apt.”

Light fingers tapped on the door to his office; Hannibal ignored them. “Okay, so—homework’s cancelled. There ain’t gonna be a quiz, either, but save those notes for later, when we get to proofs and theorems and stuff.”

Gottlieb chuckled.

“I say something funny?”

“You are referring to geometry, Mr. Chau. A very different subject than calculus.”

Hannibal felt a corner of his mouth quirk up. “You do the math, Mouthy—I’ll handle the fun stuff. Thing is, there’s a lot more to sex than just getting off and watching people get off. You know that. Right?”

“Yes,” Gottlieb said carefully. “But you instructions were for me to watch pornography, and to see what types of it—aroused me.”

The tapping came again, louder and pissier this time. Hannibal scooped a pen off his desk and chucked it at the wood.

“Yeah, well, this ain’t like math where x equals y and step A goes to step B. When you told me you got turned on by people’s personalities, I shoulda figured the last thing that’d do it for you was something where personality pretty much isn’t even on the table. There’s porn that’s more about personality, but, well, let’s not make this complicated. All those people you loved, though…any of them ever do it for you?”

“Yes, of course.”

Hannibal supposed Gottlieb’s snippy tone came from embarrassment. Well, if he was thirty-six and learning all this for the first time, Hannibal supposed he’d feel a bit shitty too.

“Rule number three: no embarrassment,” he said. “That also means I’m not laughing at you. About any of this. Just because you didn’t get some chestnut of a joke about pizza guys that wasn’t ever all that funny anyway.”

On the other end of the phone, Gottlieb took in a shuddery little breath.

“Mouthy?”

“Yes? I’m quite all right. Thank you. For the reminder.”

“So those people you loved. You ever think of any of them still?”

“Oh, yes.”

Hannibal imagined Gottlieb’s big froggy mouth pulling into that mischievous little smile and chuckled. “So just remember what turned you on about them for now, and touch yourself. It sounds stupid, I know, but your body’ll know what to do once you get into it.”

“You hardly know my body,” Gottlieb groused.

“Look, just try it before you knock it, okay?”

Hermann sighed. “Some of them are married now, Mr. Chau.”

“And unless you’re gonna call ’em up at 3:00 a.m. and tell ’em you’re beating it to that one time you held hands at Oktoberfest, they’re gonna care why?”

Another sigh, but softer now. “I suppose you’re right. Thank you, Mr. Chau, for the clarification.”

“No problem. But kid?” Hannibal slid his feet off the desk and stood. “Text messages next time, okay? You never know where I’ll be or what I’ll be up to when my phone rings, and sometimes it’s not a good where or when. Claro?”

“Yes. Again, I apologize for the interruption.”

“You’re something else, Mouthy. You be good now.”

Hannibal chuckled as he disconnected the call. “All right, Ming. Floor’s yours,” he called, but Ming was already halfway into the room and looking as though she wanted to deck him.

“Uh-oh. What’d I do now?”

But Ming wasn’t in the mood for it. “The hell”—she jerked her thumb over her shoulder—“was that?”

“That,” Hannibal said evenly, “was me getting the first and most loyal employee of Hephaestus Corp., and our lead Jaeger coder.”

“Bullshit.”

“You like the name? I took it from my favorite Greek god and—”

“Hannibal!”

Ohhh shit. Ming only dropped the “sir” or “boss” when she was thinking about kicking his ass. Which she pretty much could in the literal sense—part of the reason he’d brought her on.

“That’s the name, don’t wear it out. And Klein’s worthless—boring! Every month we haul in at least three meatheads like him and make them examples of why you don’t fuck with the Haus of Chau. I get a call from my wet dream poured into a tweed jacket, I’m damn well putting him on hold to take it.”

“And when he tells our enemies that you’ve got a new piece of ass?”

“They’ll say, ‘Gee. Must be a day that ends in –day.’” Hannibal turned toward the mini bar and took out a rock glass.

“Who’s got to call you for instructions to finger-fuck himself. We all heard that shit. It’s gonna turn heads.”

“Yeah, I’ll be in all the society pages, all right.” Hannibal unstoppered the bourbon decanter. “What’s this really about, sis?”

Ming took in a deep breath, and Hannibal turned, drink in hand, to look at her. This wasn’t the kind of confab you had casually.

“Fifteen years ago in Singapore, you told me, let me know if I’m ever about to go in over my head. Well, the water’s rising, boss.”

Hannibal leaned back against the bar, set down his drink, and folded his arms across his chest.

“Okay. What’re you thinking?”

“He’s nerdy. Virginal. I know nerdy and virginal. But thirty-six and never seen a porno? Doesn’t even know about the fucking pizza delivery shit? After hanging around a guy like _Geiszler_ for ten years? Barely knows how to jerk himself off? It smells.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Ming. Gottlieb’s a special case. Add one part Catholic repression and/or guilt”—he ticked it off on a large finger—“one part social awkwardness, one part Daddy issues, one part homophobia, three parts spending a decade with a smashed-up body no one touched unless they had to hurt it some more, and three parts what I’m pretty sure’s neurological shit no one ever bothered to check out with everything else going on, and you don’t get any parts that fit a mold.”

“And with Pentecost, you’ve got one part cunning, one part ruthlessness, and one part desperation. Plus, he’s just as smart as you.”

“But he’s not a scumbag like me.” Hannibal grinned and picked up his drink. “No, sis. I told you, no way Pentecost’s in this for anything but Kaiju guts and no way Mouthy’s Mata Hari-ing.”

“Would you bet money on that?”

“Now when have I ever been known to trust anyone?”

“Don’t know,” Ming said archly. “You’ve never walked out on business for sex, even really good sex.”

“Yeah, but this time that really good sex is business, same as usual. Just more pressing business is all.”

Ming sighed and ran a hand over her shaved head. “Don’t fall for him.”

Hannibal chuckled as he turned back to the bar to pour her a drink to match his. “Ain’t no chance of that. When’ve I been known to fall for anything but cash, power, and more cash and power? He’s using me, Ming, just like I’m using him. Only thing is, he’s honest about it.”

Ming shook her head as Hannibal handed over her drink. “Still thought you let Klein off too easy, so I kicked him in the shins a few times before the drop.”

“Wouldn’t pay you the big bucks if I expected any less, sis.” Hannibal clinked his glass against hers. “Now how about that update on Russia you promised me?”

The matter was closed up like a monk’s asshole now, and Ming knew it, but she still looked irritated. It bugged him. It shouldn’t, but it did. Sure, he was the boss and he did what he wanted, but that didn’t mean he liked it when he and Ming didn’t see eye-to-eye.

“Better news than we’d thought.” But just like that, the irritation was gone, though Hannibal had a twisty little feeling this wouldn’t be the end of it—lady was definitely not sweet on Gottlieb.

“Yeah?” Hannibal raised the glass to his lips.

“That abandoned Shatterdome in Vladivostok? Not as abandoned as we thought.”

“Son of a bitch. Let me guess: government’s repurposed it?”

“Nope. Sitting there rusting, just like you said. But it’s got some squatters: turns out the K- and J-scientists and some of the techs didn’t take the eviction order all that seriously. Soon as the Kremlin stopped looking, they cut the fence down and sneaked back in. Far as I can tell, a couple high-ups know what’s going on, but with prep work for the wall and that last Kaiju attack in September that fucked up the Kamchatka Peninsula, they don’ really care about evicting them.”

“Well, shit. Why’d you make me worry? That’s great! So we open a channel, offer them actual food and working equipment, and—”

Ming shook her head. “You didn’t let me finish.”

Hannibal suppressed a sigh. “Oh, I do not like the sound of this.”

“Mh-hm. Three guesses who’s leading them.”

“Three guesses? The hell would I know w—” And then it hit him. Who else? “Oh no.”

Ming nodded.

“Fuck a duck.” Hannibal slapped his glass down on the bar. “Should’ve known Braginskaya’d be in this up to her ta-tas. Well hell if that doesn’t just throw a monkey wrench in everything.”

“Maybe not. Whatever she thinks about you personally, she’s a good businesswoman—and one who doesn’t have half our resources and knows it.”

“Mh. She also tried to blow my head off last time we met up, and I do not mean in a way that made me happy.”

Ming shrugged and took another sip. “Worth a try, I think. Anyway, you want to talk to her, I gotta let our contact know today.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hannibal sighed. “Soon as she can spare a minute—but don’t tell them that. I’m already gonna look desperate enough opening up negotiations first, even if I’ve got a warehouse full of goodies she doesn’t have, and her J-Sci nerds probably want.”

“Which you should have told me why we were acquiring when you bought them up.” But Ming was shaking her head, which meant she was more amused than irritated.

Hannibal chuckled. “Well, hell, I didn’t wanna get you all excited about possibilities only to have to sell it all for scrap. You’d’ve never let me hear the end of it, Ming!”

“Mhm.” Ming rolled her eyes. “You’re worse than my brother with his model trains.”

“But, see, when I hoard crap, I do it for a reason.” He sighed and took another gulp of alcohol. “God damn it, the hell didn’t I grab this Shatterdome up sooner?”

“There is some good news.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Hannibal said dryly.

Ming smirked. “Speaking of nerds, your boy toy’s a demigod in Russian J-Sci. That Jaeger prototype he coded for— _Turing Boreal_?”

“I remember.” How could he not? He’d practically memorized Gottlieb’s dossier.

Ming nodded. “Joint German-Russian project. He wanted it to run on a quantum computing system. I don’t know what the hell that is, but the Russians sure ate it up, even though they couldn’t pull it off. You tell them you’ve got him in your pocket, they might just make Braginskaya hand over Vladivostok’s Shatterdome with or without your expensive junkyard.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear.” He downed the last of his bourbon. “Okay. So get me what you can on these J-Sci eggheads, sister. Especially if they’ve worked with Gottlieb. If they like him as much as all that, I’m gonna have to step up my game. Speaking of which...your lady doing anything this afternoon?”

“Just the usual paperwork with me. Why?”

“Well, tell her I need to make a trip to Harbour City and I need muscle.”

“You’re going shopping?” Ming raised an eyebrow.

Hannibal flashed his gold teeth. “Sure am. I think it’s time I spoiled my little boy toy some, don’t you?” 

***

Hermann ended the call and gingerly placed his mobile back in its charger. He tucked the blankets around his bare body and stared ahead, to the metal door through which Newton would not walk for another ninety minutes.

Really, this entire experiment had been a catastrophe. Surely he had overreacted, and calling Chau for assistance had been the height of foolishness and impropriety. And yet, he did not feel embarrassed for doing it—well, slightly, perhaps, but not as much as he had expected he would.

The marshal had told him twice now—both last night and minutes ago when he reluctantly gave Hermann the number to Chau’s mobile phone—that the man was a gangster and not to be trusted, for this and a myriad of other reasons. Perhaps he was mistaken to do so, but Hermann did trust him when it came to his rules for sex. A man who wanted to harm him would surely not craft guidelines for each of their encounters, nor would he have gone to such lengths to ensure that he, Hermann, was not ashamed of his inexperience.

And, Hermann thought as he caressed the bruise on his throat, he had broken off what sounded like important gangster business—the specifics of which he did not care to imagine—to reassure him.

His member stirred against his thigh.

Hermann blinked and moved the blankets aside to examine himself. Interesting.

Yes, that was a good word for it. A very good word. This entire experience should have left him upset and dispirited, but Chau had changed the equation.

 _Imagine the people I have loved._ It was a thorny request, too much like forcing another to do his bidding, even if that other were just a chimera of his own fevered imagination. He only ever even fantasize about Newton on particularly painful nights, or at times when he simply could not bear to ignore his desire a moment longer.

Chau, however…

The man had touched himself while watching Hermann do the same. Surely he would not mind staring in one of his student’s sexual fantasies.

Indeed, perhaps he would even want to hear about it.

Hermann enveloped his member with his right hand. He had not lied at all when telling the marshal that Hannibal Chau appealed to him. He had been too annoyed and then too angry at the rudeness of the man’s associates to piece it together at the time, but now, a week after the fact, Hermann realized he had been drawn to him at first sight. His impressive height, the strength in the heavy arm he had draped over his shoulder, his weight—muscle, certainly, but a pleasing distribution of fat if his belly was anything to judge by. His scent. The scrape of his beard. The cut of his suit. The reds and golds in which he attired himself.

Hermann realized he was stroking himself faster. He bit back a moan and arched his pelvis right up to the edge of pain.

What would he look like beneath that suit? Smooth? No. Hairy, certainly. The glimpses of his bare wrists Hermann had caught indicated as much. Thick and white, just like his beard. Hermann had little body hair of his own to judge, but he rubbed the down on his right thigh as he imagined trailing his hands through silver-white strands. Running his tongue down the curve of that hillock of a belly and—

His cock jerked against his grip. Licking. Odd. Where had that image come from? He had not seen such a thing in the pornographic films he had attempted to watch, nor had he ever imagined it.

Circling the tip of his tongue around one nipple. Would they be pert as Newton’s were, or plump and distended with age?

He hoped very much for the latter. As lovely as Newton’s chest was, he wanted Chau to be as different as possible.

Dipping his tongue into the well of that navel…

Hermann moaned and stroked faster, harder.

What would Chau do if he bit him? Would he slap him across the face?

Hermann tightened his grip. Not to the point that he was “choking” himself, as Chau had called it—and such a delicious voice! Like bourbon and broken glass and razor blades—but enough to increase the pressure.

“Ohh,” he whispered. “Oh my.”

Perhaps Chau had been correct. Perhaps his body—cerebellum included—knew far more than he realized.

Newton would have laughed, really, given the near-ecclesiastical terms in which he spoke of biology.

He did not wish to think of Newton now.

Hermann closed his eyes and stroked faster, swiping his thumb across the rapidly moistening tip of his penis.

He would devote a very long time to that belly. Long enough that he would lose track of time, track of everything that did not concern itself with warm flesh and Chau’s hands in his hair encouraging him, guiding his head to where he wished to be licked and kissed as if Hermann were a puppet designed for his pleasure, a catamite who—

Hermann bit his lip to hold back a scream as he filled his hand with heat.

“Oh, oh heaven help me,” he whispered as he attempted to quiet his breath. “My goodness.”

A quick glance at the clock showed him the entire affair had taken four minutes.

Was that typical? Hermann felt far too relaxed to give the matter much thought. That floaty, loose feeling had returned, and oh, he could certainly understand why some people became addicted to sexual activity if this were the result.

A thought swam past, glittering like a ruby, and Hermann grabbed on to it. _I am not a typical Catholic, yet I am still a Catholic. Perhaps I am also not a typical sexual. And perhaps the latter is equally to be cherished._

Another thought, then. Hermann snatched it up as well.

_I want to watch men like Chau._

And another, jewel-bright and diamond-hard.

_I want to watch men like Chau having sexual relations with men like me._

***

It took some spectacular feats of reverse engineering using the search engine, but Hermann had always prided himself on being an excellent engineer. After a few false starts and one very unfortunate turn into pornographic cartoons featuring anthropomorphized fennecs, Hermann found a handful of Red Light-approved pornographic websites that seemed to have been designed for him. The dialogue still made him cringe, and the contrivances that led up to the sex still made him mildly uncomfortable, but he found he could largely ignore that now, or dismiss it either as laziness or part of a fantasy that simply did not appeal to him.

“Bears,” he added to his list. “Silver foxes. Cougars. Jaguars.” After all, Chau had not told him to stick entirely to pornography featuring men alone. The videos of older women at play with younger men—and sometimes younger women—had interested him as well. As had the pornography in which an older or a younger partner did not clearly seem to fit either male or female.

Really, so many animal euphemisms to describe natural variations in the human family! People were ridiculous.

“Older people and younger people; sex and gender irrelevant.”

“Body hair.”

“Soulful, intelligent eyes.”

“Tattoos.”

“Body piercings.”

“Slapping.”

“Men who look like Newton engaged with older men.”

The latter made him whimper as he typed it.

Perhaps he was ridiculous as well. Unless he shut his computer down at once, cleaned himself off, and re-dressed, he would risk having Newton walk in on his dishevelment and/or, just as bad, finding or smelling evidence of it.

Really, biology was ultimately disgusting.

Showered and dressed (for the moment) in his bathrobe and underwear (the former of which smelled suspiciously—and not at all unpleasantly—like Newton), Hermann relaxed with a new translation of _Toilers of the Sea_ until Newton breezed through the door, ten minutes late and chirping an apology.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry! But we got talking theories and Kaiju acid canons and plating and-and I just lost track of time, sorry! Hey, aren’t you dressed yet? We’re gonna miss the ferry!”

Well, something like an apology.

“We’ve plenty of time,” Hermann informed him calmly, the floating feeling nearly a gauze scrim over his consciousness. And they did. Nearly ninety minutes of it. “Further, I have already showered. I was merely resting my leg for the inevitable misery of the journey.”

Entirely true this time.

“Oh. Oh man, of course!” Newt slapped his forehead. “I’ll just—uh, I’ll use the shower, and then-and then maybe we can…”

He was actually shaking.

The floating feeling lifted as if someone had ripped the curtain away. “Newton.”

“Yeah?”

“Medicine check. When did you last take yours?”

“Uh…” Newt ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “This morning. With coffee.”

The “I think” was unspoken, but Hermann knew they both heard it plainly.

“Are you certain?” Hermann asked gently. “You are behaving somewhat erratically. Will you check your pill counter?”

Newt ran a hand through his hair again. “Okay, yeah. Sure. _But._ I really think I did,” he insisted as he padded over to his side of the room and pulled open the main drawer of his desk. Hermann returned his gaze to his book. Newton did not like being stared at during such times, and Hermann could not blame him; one of the worst parts about his years of convalescence had been all of the staring, as if no one from the medical students on up to his physicians trusted him with a moment of privacy, lest he do something to disrupt or derail their treatment.

“Where the hell’s—ah, right. Desk top. Always the last place,” he heard Newton mutter. The pill box snapped open, and its contents rattled. “Yep. Saturday’s box is officially empty.”

Hermann saved his place with a laminated bookmark and put the novel on his desk as he looked at Newton one more. “You are feeling well otherwise?” he asked. “Not anxious?”

“No. Well,” Newton corrected as he leaned back against his desk. “Okay. A little.”

“For an identifiable reason?” Hermann asked as he eased himself around to sit at the edge of the bed.

“Well….” Newton hesitated as if he were weighing several different answers. “Okay. You know how when things get familiar—and I mean really familiar, like ‘holy shit I’ve been in the same building now for three and a half months’ familiar—you really want to get the hell out and see something new, because oh my God, you are so not a homebody, but leaving is kind of freaking you out at the same time because your brain hates you?”

Hermann could not say he had suffered that particular misfortune, but he understood the feeling well enough, he supposed, from watching Newton experience permutations of it regularly for ten years. 

“Does it help to remind you,” he asked gently, “that you always enjoy yourself immensely once you recognize the anxiety for the distortion it is?”

Newton again disturbed his hair. “Yeah, I guess.” And the smile he forced immediately made Hermann suspicious.

There was something Newton was not telling him, in spite of or in addition to this anxiety. He was about to tell him so, and that he did not appreciate evasion nor find it necessary, when his colleague pushed away from the desk and flashed him a smile that was far too pleasant.

Oh, yes. Newton was definitely keeping something from him.

“You know what?” Newton clapped his hands together as he pushed away from the desk. “You’re right. Fuck anxiety. We’ve got groupies. We’re going to eat dim sum. And we are going to look awesome! Wait’ll you see what I’m wearing!”

“Ugh,” Hermann said as he reached for his cane, thankful that the conversation seemed to be falling back into a familiar pattern. “Please don’t embarrass me, Newton.”

“No, man, it’s going to be awesome!” Newt reassured him as he dug through their closet.

“That’s precisely what I fear,” Hermann informed him. “Nothing good ever comes from the word ‘awesome.’”

Newton just flashed him a smile that made the back of his neck warm.

***

In the end, he needn’t have worried. Yes, Newton was constitutionally incapable of not adding cosplay trousers to his outfit, and of course he didn’t bother shaving, and naturally he looked as though he were going to a discotheque or a rave or whatever ridiculous name people now used to refer to “nightlife,” but the effect was hardly deleterious—quite frankly, Hermann had a difficult time not staring at his thighs or the slight curve of his belly. Really, after all of the pornography he had watched, he was surprised he could be so interested. But, then, this was Newton—ultimately, he was far more appealing than any fantasy or actor.

But something was bothering him. He was nervous, and far more solicitous than Hermann had ever seen him. Oh, yes, Newton seemed incapable of going anywhere outside of the Shatterdome without an army of toys at his disposal, but that was always to be expected. Rarely did he select those toys with Hermann in mind—and oh, but the _Notre-dame de Paris_ musical had been a thoughtful and very welcome surprise! Of course, it was just like Newton to also forget that his electronics were not powered by magic or photosynthesis.

Not that Hermann wished to complain about any of this. Newton was being unusually clingy, guiding Hermann’s hand into his jacket pocket for warmth, holding him tightly all the way to the ferry station. It was not only thrilling, it was deeply distracting. Thankfully, Newton also decided to be wrong about several of their favorite television programs, thereby giving Hermann sufficient reason to yell at him instead of imagining all of the things he would very much like Newton to do to him upon their return to the Shatterdome.

Control. He had to get control of his thoughts, he scolded himself. Yes, viewing pornography at Chau’s bequest was all very well and good—even, if he were honest, deeply satisfying—but it had unfortunately primed him to be far less immune to Newton’s charms than he typically made himself.

Thankfully, Newton became far less charming the moment they met their hosts, as if the appearance of new faces had tripped some mechanism in his brain that had been programmed to embarrass Hermann whenever they left their laboratory. Naturally, neither Dr. Tang nor his grandchildren and in-law seemed to care or even notice that Newton was behaving indecorously. Indeed, they adored him, and Dr. Tang’s grandchildren in particular.

 _He is good with children_ , Hermann thought at one point, when Newton attempted to balance a spoon on his nose for the entertainment of Dr. Tang’s great-grandsons. _Truly, were we ever to adopt one of the many orphans from this war, that child would be a formidable scientific mind, indeed—if Newton did not first fill their head with fancies and monster manga, of course._

Of course, it was also a foolish notion. Newton would never wish to marry or parent with him, and the less Hermann thought about such nonsense, the better off everyone would be.

But the thought was jarring—so much so that Hermann decided to excuse himself to the gentlemen’s room for a moment to regain his composure. Dr. Tang met him at the restaurant’s bar as he exited.

“Dr. Gottlieb, may I show you something?”

“Certainly, Dr. Tang.” Hermann followed him across the room, thankful for the distraction. He could not look at Newton right now without feeling a deep pang of longing.

 _This is what happens_ , he thought gloomily, _when one allows one’s libido to have free reign. I should have known._

Perhaps he had made a grave mistake in attempting Chau’s “homework” on today of all days.

Dr. Tang led him to a back wall upon which several of his daughter’s wisteria paintings had been mounted.

“These are some of Li’s best work,” he explained. “I thought you might wish to see them up close—Li-Ann told me that you were quite taken with the restaurant’s design.”

“Yes. It is truly an exquisite marriage of art and architecture.”

Dr. Tang smiled, a bit sadly in Hermann’s opinion. “Thank you. It was my dear daughter’s dream as well her design. It seems that every family of scientists eventually produces an artist—mine was fortunate enough to produce Li.” His smile became wistful. “I have no doubt she would have done many great things had it not been for Reckoner’s attack.”

“I am so very sorry, Dr. Tang,” Hermann said gently. His eyes itched in a way that boded tears. He blinked them rapidly to hold them back, but thankfully his host did not appear to have noticed.

“Thank you, Dr. Gottlieb. Li-Ann told you, I think about Li’s appreciation for the flower that gave this restaurant its name?”

Hermann nodded. “Yes. When Newton and I worked in Tokyo’s Shatterdome in 2020, we visited Ashikaga Park on several occasions. The large wisteria there was among my favorite sights.”

_“You know what’s really cool about wisteria, Hermann?” Newton had asked on one such occasion as he flopped down beside Hermann on a bench beneath the canopy of lavender. “It’s actually a legume—like peas or peanuts.”_

_“I know what a legume is, Newton,” Hermann had informed him as he placed his bento box on his lap._

_“Yeah, I know you know,” Newton had said, pushing his ridiculous glasses up his nose. They were new and had thick black frames, and Hermann was not at all impressed by them. The thin silver frames Newton had worn before were far more attractive; they did not distract from his green eyes._

_“But the cool thing about legumes,” Newton rambled on, failing as usual to take the hint that Hermann cared not a pin for discussing flora, “is that our lives would really suck without them. They’re everywhere in practically every culture—lentils, soy… alfalfa!”_

_“Yes, Newton,” Hermann said as he opened the small takeaway box. “This is terribly fascinating.”_

_“I know! Isn’t it?”_

_Hermann sighed. He had learned long ago that Newton would simply not stop talking about biology, even if he was told outright it was a tiresome subject. It was best, he had found, just to let Newton ramble until something else attracted his attention. He was rather like the tired joke about weather, Hermann decided as he picked up one of the rice balls within: if one did not like the subject on which Newton was currently holding court, one needed only to wait._

_“So, pretty cool, huh?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Hermann, Hermann, Hermann,” Newton sighed. “You totally ignored all of that, didn’t you?”_

_“You are a veritable font of trivia, Newton. One among your legion of unappealing characteristics, I fear.”_

_“Well, you shouldn’t have.” Newton pouted as he opened his own box. “Because I was telling you how legumes are symbiotic. Which is really awesome. Because without rhizobia, agriculture would really suck too.”_

_“Yes, I’m sure it—”_

_“But it’s funny how symbiosis works,” Newton prattled on as he snapped open his chopsticks. “I mean, if you think about it, the PPDC’s pretty symbiotic. K-Science and J-Science could exist without each other, I guess—because, I mean, giant robots and giant monsters are always fucking awesome—but neither would thrive. And then there’s Jaegers and techs, LOCCENT and Jaeger pilots, and, uh…us.”_

_Hermann had looked over at him then, feeling the backs of his ears tingle just slightly._

_“P—” he cleared his throat. “Pardon?”_

_“Yeah.” Newton grinned at him. “Your math and engineering, my biology. It’s kind of like you’re the tree and I’m the wisteria.”_

_Hermann had made what he hoped was a thoughtful noise and turned his attention back to the lavender blossoms. They shifted in the faint breeze. Somewhere, he heard the sound of a child laughing, the patter of voices in at least three different languages._

_Newton’s right hand spread over his left like a blanket and squeezed. Heartbeat echoing in his ears, Hermann had eased his shaking fingers down onto Newton’s and squeezed back to the best of his ability._

_They ate in silence for several minutes._

_“’Course,” Newton said idly, “I could also be the peanuts, and you’re the bacteria.”_

_And then, well… they had ended up looking like shining examples of scientific decorum by throwing most of their lunches at each other._

_Symbiosis, indeed._

Dr. Tang was speaking now, and Hermann pushed the memory away.

“Do you know much about the language of flowers, Dr. Gottlieb?”

Hermann shook his head. “I fear I am a poor student of folklore, doctor. Indeed, I was scarcely read my own nation’s fairy stories as a child.”

Dr. Tang nodded in apparent understanding. “The Victorian British were, I think, a very sad and lonesome people to have needed a symbolic language for desire. But I find there is a certain poetry in that, nonetheless.”

“Indeed,” Hermann said politely. “Though I fear my education in and appreciation for poetry is similarly lacking.”

 _It is filled with lies_ , he did not say out of courtesy. _And I do not read it because it hurts me._

“As with any secret language, each flower the Victorians knew had a number of meanings—often somewhat contradictory, depending upon which source one consults,” Dr. Tang said. “However, in nearly every dictionary I have read, the wisteria is a symbol for love, devotion, and most importantly, endurance. ‘I cling to thee,’ as one author beautifully expressed it. It is not difficult, I do not think, to see why.”

“Love is said, in my faith, to endure all things,” Hermann agreed. He glanced over at their table where Newton was currently regaling the children with stories of the dinosaurs.

_It is also far more patient and far kinder than I._

“This one, however, is my favorite.” Dr. Tang indicated the centermost of the three paintings. It was not of the hanging flower itself, Hermann noted, but of a sad-eyed young Japanese woman clutching a branch of lavender wisteria. Her dress and makeup suggested that of a Kabuki actor.

“ _Fuji Musume_ ,” Dr. Tang elaborated as Hermann fumbled for his glasses to better examine the detailing. “The Wisteria Maiden. A Kabuki play from the 1920s, and Li’s favorite for obvious reasons. The story concerns the painting of a young lady”—he gestured at the picture—“who falls in love with a young man. Her desire for him is so strong that it brings her to life—a far more interesting story than that of Pygmalion, don’t you think?”

Hermann nodded politely. In actuality, he wasn’t quite sure whether Pygmalion was the sculptor who had brought his statue to life or the boy Zeus had stolen away to be his cupbearer.

“However, the youth does not notice nor return her affections, and in despair she returns to her canvas, never to feel longing or love again.”

“Oh.” Hermann could think of no better response. This conversation, he decided, was becoming slightly strange.

“I mention this play, Dr. Gottlieb, both because it explains the painting, and because it illustrates an important lesson. My daughter—and she would not mind you knowing this—painted it shortly before she asked the man she loved most in the world if he returned her feelings.” He smiled. “My son-in-law, Feng, is a kind man, you must understand, but sometimes a little obtuse.” He chuckled. “He would also not mind my saying this. He loved Li intensely, but he did not know that she returned his feelings until she told him. Painting this picture, and meditating upon how her story and that of the Wisteria Maiden’s were similar, helped her to understand that desire can wound us greatly when we do not speak it.”

Hermann was not certain what to say. He had the distinct feeling Dr. Tang had not brought him here to discuss folklore, poetry, biology, or Japanese drama, and he did not wish to think of what that reason might be.

“Grandfather?” They both turned at the sound of Mai’s voice. “Li-Ann is asking when you will bring Dr. Gottlieb back to her. She has finished the equation and would like to show him.”

“Ah, yes, of course!” Dr. Tang grinned at his youngest grandchild. “I was merely showing Dr. Gottlieb my favorite of your mother’s paintings. We’ll be along shortly, Mai.”

Mai nodded and returned to the table. When she was out of earshot, Dr. Tang murmured, “Please, Dr. Gottlieb. Humor an old man and tell me you will think on what I have said.”

“I—” Hermann turned back to him to say that, in all honesty, he had no idea what his host was talking about, but Dr. Tang had already left to rejoin the table.

The Wisteria Maiden looked after him, her face heavy with a permanent kind of sorrow.

***

The strange discussion had not dampened Hermann’s enjoyment of the evening. However, as the night wore on, a soft sort of melancholy settled its hand upon him. In just a few hours, he had become terribly fond of Dr. Tang and his family—though why they tolerated and even encouraged Newton’s antics, he could not have said. And that was a problem. No matter what Shatterdome he and Newton lived in, no matter what nation occupied the last line on their ever-changing postal address, there was always at least one family like the Tangs of whom he became fond—and that was a dangerous thing indeed.

Theologians had debated for centuries over whether or not the human being was good or evil. It was an argument that Hermann found deeply ignorant. The human being was essentially good—the simplest reading of the first chapter of Genesis settled that so-called debate, and if one needed further evidence, they had only to consult the rest of the Bible. However, he wished deeply that he could see human eings otherwise, or at the very least as neutral creatures—then, perhaps, his responsibility to them would not have weighed so heavily upon his shoulders.

The feeling of that responsibility and of his inability to uphold it only grew as the evening progressed. On the ferry ride home, it became almost painful—a scream his heart felt far too small to hide.

Desire, Dr. Tang had said, was a deadly thing to bury within one’s soul. And Hermann’s chiefest desire was to save the things God had called good. Perhaps he had been right—perhaps expressing that desire to someone would help him to bear it with greater ease and efficacy.

“Newton…,” he said softly.

“Hm?” Newton turned his gaze from the receding shoreline. “What’s up, Hermann? You cold?” He wriggled closer, and Hermann did the same before he could stop himself. Suddenly, he very much wanted the heat of another body.

“Yes,” he admitted, “but…that isn’t it. Newton, that family back there…” He nodded in the direction his colleague had been looking.

“Yeah?” Newton said. Hermann was thankful for the way in which Newton rubbed his hand up his arm. Suddenly, the need to be touched was overwhelming.

“I can’t stop thinking about them,” he admitted. “That wonderful grandfather, those beautiful great-grandchildren. That remarkable young woman—you were right, you know,” he added with no small amount of shyness, “it seems I do have a groupie. I am, apparently, her hero.”

Newt chuckled, but not at all in the snide way he did when he had just been told, effectively, that he had been right. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Being somebody’s rock star.”

Hermann did not know how to answer that. It felt wonderful, yes, but only because of ego. In reality, being a hero to someone, a role model, a mentor, was a great responsibility. He did not know if he, creature of small faith that he was, could live up to it. Particularly when the mathematics she so admired him for doing could well have put her and her family and friends at risk.

_Oh God…._

“It reminds me of just how much is at stake,” he managed. “How vital our work is. Newton….”

And then the pain escaped his hold.

“I do not wish at all to belittle any of our colleagues, lest of all that of our phenomenal Jaeger pilots, but it is science that gave them machines. Science that determines what part of a Kaiju is the weakest and most vulnerable. Science that has saved entire cities from the effects of Kaiju Blue.”

“Hermann—” Newton tried. But a dam had broken. Surely, they both knew it.

“No. Please. Let me finish,” Hermann said quickly before his voice could choke up into a sob for the second time in less than a week. “It is we, Newton, who stand between the Kaiju and an entire planet filled with wonderful families such as Dr. Tang’s. And with all of our scientists scattered to the four winds and my father— And my father all too happy to place profit and prestige before people, we, you and I, are truly the last—”

“Shhh,” Newton whispered as he pulled him close—

And into a kiss.

Hermann froze. He felt like a computer that had just been given a thousand contradicting commands at once. As he attempted to sort through them, his hands glided up Newton’s back—warm, so warm beneath his jacket!—and pulled him hard against his body. The judder of his heart was the only sound his ears seemed capable of registering.

 _Your body knows what it wants_ , Chau’s voice whispered above it.

Yes. It did. And yes, this was what he wanted. Newton’s hands on him, Newton pressing him down into the cushions, Newton on top of him and rubbing against him as he kissed him and kissed him….

Newton’s tongue flicked against his lips, and on instinct Hermann parted them. He moaned softly as Newton tugged at his lower lip, then sucked it into the heat of his mouth. It was impossible, but Hermann was certain that fireworks were exploding in his head.

But then Newton was pulling way as if he had been burned, so quickly his glasses struck Hermann’s nose

“Sorry! I’m sorry, I—I—I—I—”

He looked away quickly, his face looking scalded even in the ferry’s weak lighting.

And Hermann felt his blood fill with broken glass.

Newton had just done that to comfort him, and had realized that he simply could not go through with it.

“It’s quite all right, Newton,” he said. Heaven only knew where his poise came from. It felt as though someone else were speaking with his mouth.

“Huh?” Newton snapped his head back around and stared at Hermann, wide-mouthed as a trout.

No doubt he expected a tongue-lashing for starting something he had no intention to finish. But Hermann would not spoil the evening with a quarrel—and certainly not over something so—

“It has been a very emotional few weeks. For both of us,” the person who was not Hermann said as he moved Hermann’s hands across Newton’s back—why he would not let Hermann draw them back, Hermann could not have said.

“Yeah. Emotional night. Bad start to the year. But, hey! It calmed you down, right?”

And yes, there it was. Newton was laughing it off as if he had made a simple faux pas such as belching during dinner.

“Well, certainly better than a slap would have,” the person who was not Hermann agreed. And he actually laughed as if it had not been an issue in the slightest.

And then, Hermann found himself with his head against Newton’s shoulder. “I’m freezing, Newton. Please hold me,” he whispered. But this time, the speaker was himself and the voice was his own again.

“Okay, dude.” He felt Newton’s arms tighten around him, tucking him as close as a heartbeat itself. “Okay.”

Hermann did not want to think. Could not think. If he thought, he would feel, and if he felt, the shards of glass that now swam through him with each pulse of his heart would pierce him to death.

He clung to Newton as the ferry churned through the quiet water.

He had never in his entire life felt so abandoned.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt and Hermann have trouble communicating. The guild is nosy. Hannibal gets an unexpected visitor--and Ming isn't happy about anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: this chapter contains some brief, vaguely ableist language, which nobody condones. (Sometimes gangsters aren't really nice people.) It's there for a good reason, though, I promise, and it's not something either I condone or see cropping up a lot. It doesn't feel like enough to me to really warn for, but I wanted to let y'all know just in case.

(Sunday morning.)

_To: NGeiszler—KSci_

_From: KHo—SShip_

_Dear Dr. Geiszler:_

_A delivery has arrived for you. Please come to dock 4A to confirm delivery and arrange for transportation._

_Personal note: Maybe we should get you your own mailbox. Will Karloff size do? ;)_

_Sincerely,_

_Kristine Ho_

_Chief of Shipping_

_KHo—Reception_

_V2V connect: S-5216_

_*Totally shipping it.*_

***

One of Tiamat’s dorsal pincers floated in a vat as tall as his waist, the yellow ammonia turning its chitinous shell a truly toxic green, like something out of Swamp Thing.

Newt stroked his fingers across the glass. “Unreal,” he breathed.

Hermann’s chalk stopped mid-click, then resumed a few seconds later. He was listening, the jerk, but pretending not to.

“I mean, the government here tries—they really do, they all do—but the apocalypse will be red-taped. Half the time it gets to me, it’s unusable; the other half, it’s crap because their K-Science teams are either micromanaged experts or regular, underfunded biologists. Decent enough, but they can’t tell a Kaiju ganglion from a Kaiju alveolus, and I mean, come on!”

Hermann continued chalking.

“But now”—Newt drummed his fingers against one of the three jars resting against the leftmost wall on his side of the laboratory—“A huge hunk of skin from Tiamat. I know it’s Tiamat’s because of the armor plating and the green color. A pituitary gland, which I’ve only ever read about in reports, and—and—a secondary heart. Or part of it, I mean. Pretty sure the Weis cut it in half when they killed it.”

The chalk continued to slap across the board.

Newt rested his hands on his hips and arched his back into a stretch. “Ahhh. Weird thing, though? It didn’t come in with an order number again. And I mean, I do that every month, you know? I try to have it waiting before an event too because of your predicti—sorry, that’s sensitive, I know. But like I said, don’t worry about that. You’ll figure out what went wrong.”

“Or I will if you stop chattering at me long enough for me to work. I’m trying to concentrate, Newton.”

“Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry, but man, this is weird and I don’t get it.” Newt turned around and met Hermann’s gaze from across the lab.

Hermann held his chalk poised above the blackboard as Newt raised his eyebrows. He frowned and shook his head.

Newt raised his eyebrows again and gestured sharply at him, palms up.

Sighing, Hermann put his chalk down.

Newt gave him a half-smile before turning back to the cases. “Okay, so you remember, both when we were here and back when we were in SF and Vladivostok and pretty much everywhere, what I’d do the minute we got the all clear? Send in the paperwork, talk to the contacts, remind them how vital it was that I get the specimen I’d requested. And one-hundred percent of the time they made the right noises about international cooperation and bullshit, but only delivered about one fourth of the time.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so what do the US, Russia, and China have in common besides barely tolerating each other even in an international crisis? They all suck at letting me do my job! But now…Hermann, this is fresh, good stuff! From a Kaiju that hasn’t been dead for two or three years, like our buddy in storage who showed up last week. It hasn’t even been dead for two weeks!”

“Perhaps they were feeling generous.”

“Hermann,” Newt drawled. “You’re an optimist, but not _that_ much of an optimist.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermann said as he moved toward the door. “Perhaps they’ve finally realized the gravity of the situation. Really, who knows why governments do anything?”

“Uh, Hermann? Whatcha doin’?”

Hermann stopped walking and looked over his shoulder. “I’m going to make a call, of course.”

Newt just stared at him blankly. “Okay,” he said after a moment, “and you’re leaving the room to do that when you’ve got a perfectly good SkypeRED connection here because…?”

“A personal call, Newton!” Hermann snapped. “If you would ever bother to listen, then you would know—”

“Um, dude? I listen all the time. I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about now.”

“Don’t be absurd! I—” Hermann’s eyes widened. “Oh dear. Newton, I thought I’d told you. Mother asked if she could speak with me today regarding last week’s unpleasantness. I regret to say that our typical lunch hour is the only time that is convenient for her.”

Newt blinked. That was weird. Usually Hermann told him everything he was going to do days before it happened. Then again, sometimes plans changed even in his little micromanaged world, and he had been under a lot of stress lately—

_No thanks to you, dickhead._

“Oh, that’s fine,” he said. “We can always go at 1400 instead! Not a lot of people go then, so—”

“No, please don’t wait on my account! In all honesty, I’m a bit off my food today.”

Newt frowned and crossed the room. “You feeling all right?”

Shit. He did not like the sound of this. A not-hungry Hermann was a not-happy Hermann.

“Yes, Newton.” Hermann gave him a small smile which, of course, was total cow shit, and anyone who knew him would know it. “However, if you could perhaps bring me back some milk for later, I would very much like to take it with my afternoon tea.”

“Uh, okay,” Newt said numbly as Hermann padded toward the door. His stomach churned again; really, it’d been like one huge balloon filled with acid since last night.

 _Now or never, man. But you gotta say_ something!

“Uh, Hermann?”

Hermann paused with his hand on the door. “Yes?”

And here was the hard part—actually saying something. “Uh, it’s about last night. I think we should—you know.”

Hermann peered over his shoulder, and Newt didn’t know whether or not to be relieved by the usual stern look on his colleague’s face.

“No, Newton. I’m not certain I do,” Hermann said. Okay, so his voice was calm too. That was good…right?

Right?

Newt sucked in a breath as his stomach heaved. “You know, why I, uh…did the thing. With my lips. The…kissing thing?”

Hermann shook his head, but the gesture was gentle, not all angly disapproving like he did when he was irritated. That was good. Maybe?

“I quite understand, Newton. It was an emotional evening, as you said. I have quite forgotten it.”

 _What?! Okay. Not good. Definitely not good._ “Uh,” Newt said, struggling to grab on to one of the many things he wanted to say, “no, see, but, I—”

“It’s fine, Newton,” Hermann pressed, his tone somewhat stiffer this time. “Now, if you please, no more of it, yes? It was not at all offended. Please excuse me.”

Newt tried to say wait, but failed to get it out before Hermann was through the door, walking at a clip that definitely suggested his leg was not going to thank him later.

“Fuck me,” Newt said. His stomach growled sourly and suddenly felt as though it were trying to digest nails. He promptly turned and puked up what felt like pure acid into his trash can.

 _Fuck_ , he thought again as he wiped the back of his hand across his lips. _Definitely should not have had the coffee._

And then another thought.

 _Fuck you too, Hermann. Fuck you sideways, upside down, and_ blue _._

After the ferry had docked last night, Hermann had disentangled himself from Newt and silently started gathering up the cushions and blanket. When Newt had tried to help, he merely murmured that he was fine. They hadn’t said more than a handful of words to each other on the way to their room, and unless you counted, “I’ll change in the water closet this time,” and “Okay,” none of them made a sentence or were in any way relevant. And that’d pretty much continued until Kris had messaged him about this new Kaiju delivery from who knew where.

Newt leaned back in his chair and pressed his hands against his temples, struggling to keep the next wave of nausea at bay. Jesus. Now would probably be a really, really good time for that take-as-needed Xanax, wouldn’t it? Oh, yeah. Except stupid _fucking_ Newton Geiszler had lost his take-as-needed Xanax in the mini-Mordor that was his desk. Brilliant!

The panic attack was coming on like a goddamned tsunami, and Hermann—Hermann wasn’t here to hold his hand or hold him, and fucking hell, _Hermann_ was the reason he was having it!

Newt wrenched open the center drawer of his desk and swore as it banged him in the stomach. He swore again as he riffled through the mess inside, and again as something that felt like either the shards of a broken pen or really thick cat claws stabbed him.

“Where’s the Xanax?” he chanted. “Where’s the Xanax. _Son of a fucking fuck where is the god damned fucking shit Xan—_ ”

His fingers brushed against a hard little moon of plastic.

“Thank God.”

Newt ripped the bottle out from the back of the drawer, sending a brace of pens, paperclips, and who the fuck cares tumbling to the floor. Somehow, he managed to wrest the lid off and shake out one of the pale-pink 0.5 milligram pills. He swallowed it dry and leaned back in his chair and tried to breathe deeply.

“ _I must not fear_ ,” he said. “Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration….”

Yeah, so _Dune_ was awesome until the shitty chapterhouse book, and all the fanfic sequels sucked Kaiju scrotum, but the litany was just about the only thing that could calm him down. Hell, he’d even gotten _Hermann_ to say it with him, and that was after Hermann had figured out that the Bene Gesserit were kind of a swipe at his favorite Catholic order.

Bad. Thinking about Hermann now was definitely bad.

Maybe when the Xanax took over.

Maybe then.

“ _I must not fear._ Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.  
I will face my fear….”

Oh. Yeah.

There it went.

Man, he fucking loved tranqs. That nice buoyant feeling you got after sex, only without the sex, which was messy and complicated and fuck, not really worth your time after your hormones peaked at thirty/thirty-one, if you thought about it, really, and, great, he was going to be a total ass-face at work today, right, because Xanax was pretty much checking out of everything, but man at least he could think now, kind of.

Of course, this had to happen when he had actual, good Kaiju to play with too.

“Yeah.”

Godzilla roared again.

“All right, all right already,” Newt grunted as he switched off the reminder and opened his messages. The first was from Tendo, and it was just the subject line: “So…….?”

The next was from Jin—how the hell did he get to a computer? Wasn’t he suppose to be drilling today with his brothers?

No subject line, but the body said it all: “C’mon, Newt, put in your fucking earpiece and tell us! TELL. USSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!”

Godzilla growled again as another message appeared. Sasha this time.

“Fuck,” Newt grumbled, “is nobody working today?”

“Is Newsha going to tell us?” read the body of the message.

Newt sighed and ran his hands through his hair.

“Might as well have a look at that pincher,” he said as he heaved himself out of his chair. Yeah, he felt a bit wavy, but not so out of it he couldn’t at least put it on the table and record some observations.

If they asked later, he’d just say he was working when they messaged and either switched off Godzilla or had music on so loud he didn’t hear the big guy’s reminders.

Yeah.

Whatever.

***

It wasn’t a lie. Not truly. He intended to speak with his mother during his lunch hour, after all—it simply wasn’t her idea.

Even so, massaging the truth was not something that made him at all comfortable, but given the situation, he hadn’t seen any more viable alternatives. Newton had been behaving strangely all morning, jumpy, more talkative than usual. Unfortunately, really, for the last thing Hermann wanted to do was think about him at the moment. He had hoped that the delivery of Chau’s supplies—a day early, no less!—would have been enough to keep Newton occupied. But, contrary to the last, Newton seemed determined to keep explaining, in increasingly kind but frenetic terms, that last night’s kiss had been an error, and that he was sorry.

Hermann winced. Did Newton feel he needed a—well, there was really no better term for it than a “pity fuck,” he supposed. And why? Because he had been feeling miserable of late? Because he was thirty-six and, as far as Newton knew, still as virginal as a snowdrop?

 _Surely…no. Newton would not pity me because of my…_ Hermann looked at his leg. “Would he?”

His mobile phone buzzed so loudly he started.

 _Who could possibly be text messaging me?_ he thought as he grabbed the ancient flip phone from its charger. _No one does but--_ oh, heavens. Surely Newton would not be trying to apologize that way!

His heartbeat sped up as he read the screen.

_You okay Mouthy? – HC_

Oh, thank goodness.

Then again, what on earth was Chau doing?

Hermann studied the text, then tapped his fingers over the ancient mobile phone’s keypad.

_Yes. Thank you. I apologise again for the interruption._

He was about to put the phone aside, when it whirred with another message.

_No prob. And stop apologizing! You’re turning an anthill into the Grand Tetons, beautiful. :-D_

Beautiful?

Something fluttered in Hermann’s throat, as if he’d swallowed a hummingbird.

And was Hannibal Chau talking to him using…emoticons?

 _Newton would say he’s showing his age_ , he thought as he pressed the keys in response.

_Texting at length is rather prohibitive for me, Mr. Chau. As you have seen, fine motor control is not my strong suit. But I do appreciate you messaging me. You were_

He hesitated, trying to think of the words.

 _very kind to me yesterday. Thank you._ he finished.

The phone lay still in his hand. Most likely, Hermann thought, Chau had messaged him in between errands or…what he probably referred to as “business.” And though he did not like to think about that business, he did like to imagine Chau going to conduct it, his expression fierce, his red suits bright, his grin just slightly wicked.

_The glamour of evil._

No. He did not like to think of Chau as evil. Unscrupulous, yes, violent and dangerous certainly…but few people were truly evil. And Chau…no. A man considerate enough not only to talk him through a moment of self-doubt but to text him the next day just to check in on him was certainly not among their number.

“Do not trust him,” Pentecost had warned.

And it wasn’t s though he did, Hermann decided. But one could certainly like someone without trusting them.

He plugged the phone back into his charger and replaced it on his desk.

It rang immediately. 

“Dr. Gottlieb speaking,” Hermann said as he answered.

“This better, Mouthy?”

“Mr. Chau?”

“None other.” That voice as smooth as whiskey—or at least what Hermann imagined whiskey tasted like. He certainly felt his throat burn as he swallowed.

“M-may I help you?”

“Nah. Nothing’s up. Just thought you might appreciate the call. Save those nice fingers of yours the trouble.”

 _Nice fingers?_ Hermann settled against the cushions on his bed and propped his leg against one, fighting back a gasp of pain as he did. He really should not have hurried from the laboratory, but Newton had been so _insistent_ upon discussing the matter when nothing needed to be said.

Chau’s chuckle was soft, warm, not at all what he expected from the man. “Take the complement, Mouthy. Your hands are gorgeous. Can’t take my eyes off them.”

Between Chau’s attentions and Newton’s…whatever Newton had been attempting…Hermann wondered if he had stopped blushing at all since Friday evening.

“Mr. Chau, our next…appointment isn’t until Friday,” he said. “I know my call to you yesterday was…rather outside our time table, but you needn’t interrupt your schedule to—”

“Mouthy, Mouthy, Mouthy,” Chau chuckled again. “Oh, you’re cute, kid. What am I gonna do with you? Okay. Rule number five: I get to be good to you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem. You had fun on Friday, right?”

“Oh, yes.” Hermann smiled slightly.

“Yeah, bet you did. I can hear it in your voice. And yet, you’re still thinking of this as work, aren’t you? Noble Dr. Gottlieb, laying down his body for the PPDC.”

Hermann frowned. “Mr. Chau, you are gravely mistaken,” he said stiffly. “I am not a noble man.”

Chau grunted in disagreement. “Kid, I’m a fair bit older than you, and in all that time, I’ve learned something: usually the people who bang on and on about how bad they are, are actually pretty damn decent. Anyway, don’t try and change the subject. You think of this as work—hell, we even called what you were doing homework, and I’m pretty sure you actually believed that—and sure, we’ve got an agreement. But that doesn’t mean you just lie back and think of Germany while I do my business.” Chau sighed, probably sensing, Hermann thought, that he, Hermann, had no idea what to make of this. “It means I get to call you up when I feel like it, Gottlieb. Tit for tat. I meant it when I said you intrigue me, sonny. Unless, of course, you wanna entrails your way out of it.”

Hermann pursed his lips. “No,” he said after a moment. “No, I would…I think I would like that very much. But please, if you would, send me a text message first. I, too, often keep strange hours, and find myself in places where answering a call would be cumbersome. I’m sure you understand.”

“Sure do.” He could picture Chau smiling as he said it. “Okay, gorgeous. Duty calls, for me and probably for you. You be good now.”

“Yes. You as well.”

This got a hearty laugh. “Ain’t nothing good about me, kid, except what I can do to you in the sack. Later!”

Hermann squawked as Chau hung up on him.

 _Infuriatingly lovely man._ He dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. Why, just hearing that voice made him…

No. Now was certainly not the time, and he had did still have _some_ self-control. Hermann calmed himself by turning his attention to the current work awaiting him in his laboratory. Just a moment to rest his leg and he would return to it, seeing as he really couldn’t avoid Newton all day.

His mother would simply have to wait.

***

Hannibal disconnected the call and shook his head.

 _You’re making this way too easy, kid_ , he thought. _I mean, there’s gullible, and then there’s being a human Stradivarius. Someone really oughta protect you from a guy like me._

He shook the thought off. _Yeah, and if someone actually gave enough of a fuck to do that, I wouldn’t be getting a Jaeger industry._ He settled back in his desk chair and grinned. _That’s the beauty of this shit of a universe—sure, it stinks, but everything comes up gold in the end if you’re willing to get dirty._

“Sir?” Ming opened the door and glided into the room.

“Sure, sis, just walk on in,” Hannibal teased, “not as if you might’ve interrupted me m—” A look at her face cut him off; she looked like she wanted to fillet something.

“Oh boy,” Hannibal sighed. “If Pincushion’s been fucking around in the back again, you can absolutely kick him in the balls ’til he sneezes jism.” He’d told that strung-out little shit once, he’d told him a million times not to sample the damn merch.

“Nope, for once he actually didn’t fuck up,” Ming said. “It’s Braginskaya.”

Hannibal groaned. “Let me guess. Her people being difficult about that little chat I wanted?”

“No,” Ming said evenly, but with what he could tell was barely controlled rage. “She’s here.”

“Huh?” Hannibal’s shoes clanked as swung up out of his chair.

“Out in the shop.” Ming cocked her head and gestured at the door with it. “Three armed guards with her. All tanks. Says she’s not gonna leave until she sees you in person.”

“Three ar— Were those meatheads out on the street sleeping instead of calling us about this?” Hannibal snapped as he pushed past her. “How the fuck weren’t we warned?”

“Because I’m just that good,” came a smooth contralto trill from the hallway.

 _Great_ , Hannibal thought as the woman herself strode into the room.

Midori Braginskaya was not the kind of woman who blended into a crowd. A good six foot four, she loomed over Hannibal by three inches, and her taste in clothes was just as flashy—probably more so, in his opinion. Today she had on black satiny knee breaches that were separated from fuck-you-up leather boots by an inch of matching fishnet stockings. Her coat and tunic dress were edged in black, netty lace and the same color as the alcohol that shared her name; though her father had probably been thinking of a more traditional Japanese name than acid-green cocktail when he and her Russian mother had picked it out, she still loved playing up the connection.

Hell, Hannibal thought, if he had an eye almost that color to boot, he’d probably do it too. It really was too good to resist the pun, or whatever you called it.

Midori tilted her head, and her long black ponytails followed the movement like a sea—damn him, something about this woman always got him feeling poetical, even if he hated her beautiful face.

“So,” she said, “are you going to offer me a drink, either of you? Or just stand there gaping? And don’t get mad at Ming, Hannibal—she told me to wait out there for you, but…hm….“ She shrugged. “I didn’t feel like it. Mr. Kaiju Bone Powder just would not shut up about your product, and frankly? I don’t like a hard sell.”

“Yeah, well, you know Pincushion,” Hannibal said breezily. “The hard sell’s why we keep him around.”

Ming was asking him if he thought they were going to need to fight her—it was in the way she twitched her left shoulder. Hannibal grunted and folded his arms over his chest-- _Not gonna hit us first. Don’t engage._

“Mhh.” Midori sucked the corner of her upper lip into her teeth and chuckled. “It’s really cute how you two talk to each other in super secret code. Almost like real gangsters. Relax, Chau-Chau. I’m not going to waste your people—though I should, really I should; you’re a wart on Kowloon’s perineum, always have been.”

“A wart?” Hannibal raised his eyebrows. “On its— Oh come on,” he chuckled, “you can do better than that.”

“No?” Midori smirked. “Festering boil? Cancerous polyp?”

He smirked back. “How about we just say I’m bad news and call the whole thing off?”

“Eh.” She shrugged. “Potato, pa-tat-oh.”

Hannibal snorted and felt some of the tension blow out of the room. “Ming, I’ll take this from here,” he told his second. “You and Johnny go and make sure—who’d you bring today?”

“The Orlov brothers,” Midori said, smirk widening. “You remember. Dmitri who thinks you’re amusing, Peter who hates you, and Fyodor who’s just glad we’re no longer fucking like cats?”

“Oh, yeah. The ones you found in the circus. Yeah, I remember. Anyway, Ming, you and Johnny go and make sure Tweedles Dee, Dumber, and Dumbest don’t break any of the merch. Anyone comes by looking for me, text me.”

“Yes, sir.” And to her credit, Ming left the room without punching Midori in the throat.

Braginskaya watched her leave. “She’s remarkably not angry at me for trying to kill you,” she mused.

Hannibal shrugged. “Eh, that’s Ming for you. Total professional.”

“Oh, tell me about it!” Midori shook her head. “I’m still sad I didn’t get to poach her from you back in 2022. Now, about that drink?”

“What’s your poison, lady?”

“You need to ask?”Midori tossed a ponytail over her shoulder.

“It’s not like I keep that shit on tap, you know,” Hannibal grumbled as he turned to the bar. But he still mixed her up a Midori sour, anyway.

“ _Arigatou_ ,” Midori chirped as she took the green guck from him and raised the glass. “Now let’s take this out onto the balcony, yes? No, not so I can have you sniped—I’m just tired of Russian winters, and an overcast Hong Kong day is close enough to summer for me right now. Besides, no reason business meetings can’t be pleasant, right?”

“They usually aren’t if they’re with you,” Hannibal said with a shrug.

They both laughed.

Five minutes later, he and Midori looked out over the bone slum as they sipped their drinks. Midori watched the foot traffic below in a way that either meant she was bored by the bicycles and compact cars, or thinking of chucking ice cubes at them.

“So, Vladivostok,” Hannibal said. “Why?”

She drummed her fingernails on the railing. “What level of truth do you want?”

“Oh, I am not playing this game, lady.”

Midori rolled a thin shoulder in a shrug. “Then you get the obvious truth—I was sick of Hong Kong and its bullshit, so I went home. When I got there, people were squatting in the Shatterdome, and I thought it might be an interesting project to…help them. Along with my merry men and women, of course.”

“Yeah, bullshit you did,” Hannibal grumbled before taking a sip of his bourbon. “What’s the less obvious truth?”

She looked at him expectantly.

Hannibal sighed. “Less obvious truth’s that I wasn’t expecting you to fly all the way down here to bargain.”

Midori shook her finger back and forth and tsked, like he was a five-year-old that just colored all over the walls. He hated that about her. “Naughty, naughty. That’s an obvious truth, but,” she drew the word out like a goddamned lo mein noodle, “we both know I’m way ahead of you, so I’ll indulge that. Bonus less obvious truth: there’s money in K-Science. J-Science too. And I don’t just mean selling research to the PPDC—you and I both know they’re just idealists at this point, and idealists are usually dirt-poor. I mean everybody else out there who’s picking up the slack.”

“Obvious truth: data traffickers are useless bottom-feeders.”

She was giggling at him. He also hated that about her. “You really think I don’t know that? I’m not talking about data traffic, _shitwit_. Try to keep up. I’m talking about selling science so people with resources can protect themselves. Now, you owe me a less obvious truth, or I’m walking out of here before you make your pitch for my Shatterdome.”

Hannibal gripped his rock glass so he wouldn’t toss the rest of its contents in Midori’s face. “Happiest day of my life was when you ran back to Russia,” he growled. “Okay. Less obvious truth: I’ve got a warehouse of Jaeger parts your K-Sci geeks’ll go gaga for.”

Midori lifted one thin eyebrow. “Less obvious truth to most of the Pacific _demi monde_ , yes.” Her smile sharpened. “Not to me. You think I want that shit, why?”

“See, I’m no J-scientist, but I kinda think they actually like it when they can actually build Jaegers—’specially when there world only has four of them to chase down those ugly bastards. Materials are scarce, governments are assholes—and hey! Reduce, reuse, recycle!”

Midori shook her head at him.

Hannibal gave her a toothy, golden smile. “You know I’m right, Midori. And since you think I owe you two: you also know I’m the big time. I got more resources, more people, more connections than your little outfit ever did. And you want to know what I think?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, ’course not.” Hannibal shifted his weight. “I think you left HK because you knew it and you knew everybody else knew it too. So what’s the least obvious truth here?”

Midori studied him evenly, her brown right eye squinting just slightly in the way she did when she was thinking.

“Least obvious truth? It’s not going to work, Chau-Chau,” she said at last.

“Oh, baloney. And you know this how?”

“Because the world’s a lot bigger than Hannibal Chau,” Midori snapped. “In China? Sure, you’re a big deal. Asia too; I might even give you Russia. Maybe. But not the rest of the Pacific Rim. Maybe you’ll get the Jaeger market here, maybe even Pentecost’s Shatterdome and that piece of crap in Sydney—but notice how that’s only two? The yakuza will have your balls if you ever go back to Japan, and no one in the Americas gives a shit about you or your operation. Don’t give me that look, either—it’s not my fault you won’t do business in North America. That’s your bed to lie in.” Midori shook the now-watery remnants of her glass before pitching the whole thing over the balcony onto the street below.

“Sorry,” she said in a tone that meant she wasn’t. “But you’re not getting my Shatterdome. And I’m sending you a bill for wasting my time. Toodles, Chau-Chau.”

Hannibal leaned against the railing and waited until she had almost reached the door before saying, “You didn’t wait for my least obvious truth.”

“I don’t need to.” But she wasn’t exactly running out of the room, either.

As smart as Midori Braginskaya was, she couldn’t resist the possibility of a secret she might not have figured out yet.

“I’ve got Gottlieb,” Hannibal said easily, as if he were admitting that he had a nice snack plate on the bar, should she care for some h’ours d’ouvres. “Dr. Hermann Gottlieb.”

The way she hesitated, just a second, before turning around told Hannibal that he’d won. Even if she didn’t know it yet. “I said least obvious truth, not most obvious lie,” she purred. “Try again.”

“Stacker sent him to me a while back to broker a K-Sci deal, but I gave him a better offer,” Hannibal said evenly. So what if she was half right? This was intel she didn’t have, and she knew it. And she wanted more. They both knew that. He crossed the room slowly, hands in his pants pockets. “Tell me, Midori. How do those J- and K-Sci types feel about you giving them their marching orders and basically just getting in the way of their work? Not too good, I bet. With all that broke-down equipment and a salary that might include one a square meal of wilted cabbage soup a day if they’re lucky, I’m guessing they like it a whole lot less. They’re trying to save the planet on a snapped shoe-string budget, and as far as they see it, you’re just one more problem they’ve gotta solve. Now”—he took out a hand and held up his index finger—“give ’em a leader they not only like but kind of worship, salvage they can use, and money to get what they need and muscle to take it for them when they can’t get it, and, lady, this act is going on tour. Besides.” He shrugged. “I could just get my Russian friends to toss your ass into the Sea of Japan instead of playing nice.”

“And I could just burn it down before you got there.”

“Nah,” Hannibal chuckled. “You like money too much. And if you cooperate, I’m willing to cut you in.”

“Just like buying penny stock, huh?”

Hannibal ignored this comment. “Thirty percent of the Russian Jaeger market, and minimum interference from me and mine. And trust me, lady—after that peninsula clusterfuck, your country’s gonna pay and pay through the ass to have its Shatterdome up and running again.”

Midori pursed her lips. “Forty percent. And I want proof that you have this guy in your pocket.”

 _Well, fuck. Of course she would._ “You think, what? We’ll all three sit down and have a nice dinner together? Hell, no. I got enough problems without you trying to poach my J-scientist.”

“No, not dinner. I’ve seen enough of his lectures to know he’d bore me to death. Especially in that reedy little professor voice he’s got.”

_Reedy?_

“Men like that bore me, Chau-Chau—unless they’re pretty. And let’s face it, he’s about the ugliest piece of shit I’ve ever seen.”

Hannibal felt his right eye twitch. _Watch it, lady._

“I mean,” Midori continued, “I understand being pale as a ghost and thin as a willow. These scientists aren’t rangers, after all. But he looks like a cadaver on life support.”

“Prettier than you are,” Hannibal informed her.

“Well, but I don’t walk like a turtle.”

Hannibal suppressed a growl and briefly considered sending her over the balcony to that two-hundred dollar wineglass. “He got smashed up in a Kaiju attack like your pa did, Midori. Show some goddamn respect!”

“Oh, I respect him. But clearly, you do that a little bit more than is professional.” And she flashed him the dictionary definition of a shit-eating grin.

 _Fuck. Me._ “I would really love to shoot you in the face right now, you know that?”

“Oh, now,” Midori chuckled. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out once you admitted he was on your payroll. I know your type of man, Chau-Chau—half the Asian underworld does. So.” She crossed the distance and slid her acid-green nails down his cheek. “That hot in bed, huh?”

“You better believe it, lady.” He slapped her hand away. “Now mittens off the moneymaker.”

Midori shot him an injured look that was pure bullshit, then burst out laughing. “Oh, Chau-Chau, Chau-Chau, no long faces! I had to get my proof somehow, since you don’t seem to like me showing up without an engraved invite, and you clearly don’t want to share a moment of the good doctor’s time.” She brushed the lapels of her jacket with her knuckles. “Fine. I’ll consider your offer. But don’t fuck me over.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Hannibal tapped the top of his head. “Last I did, you burned my ’do.”

“Yeah,” Midori agreed. “Do it again, and this time I won’t miss on purpose.” She stroked his chin again. “So, now that business is over…you up for some hate-fucking now I’ve got you good and angry?”

Hannibal wrapped her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “’Fraid not,” he said before kissing the knuckles, then darting his tongue between them. Midori’s skin tasted like salt and peonies—how she did it, he had no idea. “Ask me again when Gottlieb has his team. He’s a jealous little thing.”

Midori just laughed again. “Whatever you say. But, a word of advice, Chau-Chau?”

“Hmh. You’re gonna give it to me no matter what I say.”

“Sure am.” Another cat-that-ate-the-chickens grin. “Don’t fall for him. Love doesn’t look good on you. And don’t bother showing me out, I know the way. I’ll be in touch!”

And Midori was gone before he could tell her not to let the door hit her skinny little ass on the way out.

Hannibal stared at the wall for a solid twenty seconds.

“The god damn hell does _everybody_ keep saying that?” he asked it.

“Because you lose your shit around argyle socks and tweed jackets,” Ming said as she stepped through the door.

Hannibal smirked at her. One thing Midori hadn’t counted on was the maze of tunnels and secret doors and rooms he’d built into this funhouse of a lair—or that he’d instructed Ming to hide out in one and listen to every word they said. _Take that “super secret code” to the bank, you over-dressed peacock_ , he thought with a great deal of vanity.

“I am shocked, Ming!” Hannibal put both hands over his heart. “You and Braginskaya agreeing on something? Call the Vatican! It’s a friggin’ miracle!”

Ming narrowed her eyes. “Braginskaya’s almost as smart as Pentecost—I’m not gonna deny that just because I want to break her kneecaps with a bat and drop her off the pier during the next Kaiju attack.”

“Heh. I think that’s the tamest demise you’ve imagined for her yet. I liked the one with the packs of wild dogs better, though. Listen, don’t worry about it, okay? Sure she shot at my head, but Midori’s a god damned Mozart with a Smith & Wesson. If she wanted to hit me, she would have. Just like if I’d’ve wanted to take out that green eye of hers with that throwing knife, I would have. Just part of the negotiation. Besides.” He shot her a grin. “You nearly carved out my spleen during that throw-down we had the week we met.” He patted his side where scar still glistened beneath his vest and shirt.

“Yeah, but that wasn’t personal.” Ming had the good grace to look just a bit chagrined. “And you gave me one to match.” She tapped the red arch on her left bicep.

“And neither was this,” Hannibal assured her. “So tell me. What’s your read on this situation?”

“She’s fucking with you, same as always,” Ming said flatly. “Midori talks as big as she thinks, and she doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘details.’ She’s taken over that Shatterdome because she felt like it, but no way she can run it anywhere but into the ground. She wanted you to buy it—would’ve sold it to you, Gottlieb or no Gottlieb.”

“Yeah, I think so too. Which really must mean it’s a lemon. “

Ming wasn’t laughing, though.

“I know, I know,” Hannibal grumbled as he held up his hands. “You’re pissed off ’cause she figured out I was banging the talent.”

“That boy is trouble , boss. And the fact that she di—”

“She figures everything out, Ming! That’s just what—”

“—means other people will too. At the best he’s a weakness; at worst, he’s a liability for poachers and anyone else who might want a cut of the Jaeger market—and not all of them are as harmless as Klein. Or do you really not think Midori would hesitate to stuff him into a trunk and drag him off to Russia if it was in her best interest?”

“That is _not_ gonna happen, little sister,” Hannibal said. “Because I will personally break the kneecaps of anyone who touches a hair on his head without my permission.”

Ming snorted. “Dick-whipped.”

“Look,” Hannibal sighed. “I know how to protect him. And I know how to protect us. And so do you. So just…trust me. Okay?”

Ming sighed. “Let me teach him some self-defense. Or at least give him some weapons. If he wasn’t asking for trouble catching taxis in Kowloon all by himself, he sure as hell will be now. You know Midori can’t keep her fucking mouth shut, either. If she knows it, the whole Russian mob will by the end of the week.”

“Fine, fine,” Hannibal waved her away. “Now drop it, all right? We’ve got a Shatterdome to start renovating, funds to get ready to transfer, Jaeger shit to ship—and we should probably start moving on Sydney before anyone else gets any bright ideas about that hunk of junk.”

“I mean it, boss.” Ming draped an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t lose your head or your heart here.”

Hannibal slipped his arm around her shoulders as well.

“You know, some days I really think I shoulda finished that job, the way you stress me out,” she said as she poked at his scar.

Hannibal laughed and pushed her away. “Get back to work, or I just might finish what _I_ started.”

“You wouldn’t last five minutes without me.”

“Would you get outta here already?” Hannibal flipped her off as she left, shaking her head.

And shaking his head, Hannibal decided he deserved another drink.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermann and Newt deal with the fallout of Saturday night. Aleksis is not amused. And Hermann's math may not have been the problem with his model after all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This chapter took forever because of my own disability-related issues and because it includes SCIENCE! That I am trying to make as plausible as possible--yes, even though this is a world with giant robots punching giant amphibious creature-things. Eighty percent of this chapter and pretty much everything in the one that follows owes an enormous debt to cryogenia, my awesome beta.

(Sunday afternoon.)

_To: NGeiszler—KSci_

_From: KHo—SShip_

_Dear Dr. Geiszler:_

_A delivery has arrived for you. Please come to dock 2B to confirm delivery and arrange for transportation._

_Personal note: Sorry, we messed up packing the flatbed. There’s still a Kaiju eye down here that’s looking for you! ;)_

_Sincerely,_

_Kristine Ho_

_Chief of Shipping_

_KHo—Reception_

_V2V connect: S-5216_

_*We’re multi-shippers!*_

***

“H-hey!”

Newt’s only thought as a large hand seized his arm and hauled him into the custodial closet three doors down from the lab was _Fuck._ He should _not_ have let his guard down, especially on his home turf.

All day long he’d been trying to avoid the guild. That wasn’t too hard with Tendo, since LOCCENT officers pretty much lived at their stations 24/7, or with Mako and Raleigh. They were the newest Jaeger team, so when they weren’t off duty they were usually training or taking long walks on the beach or whatever it was Jaeger pilots did to bond when they didn’t already come as a matching set. The Kaidonofskys, though…well, he may or may not have jumped into a laundry cart at one point to avoid Sasha.

And they were bad, but not as bad as Jin, who didn’t seem to have a job anymore that didn’t involve spamming both his email and his V2V inbox or wandering into the lab with bogus errands for Newt that would get him alone long enough to interrogate. On the third time, Hermann had thankfully told him that “I think my butt is broken” was medical’s problem, not theirs, and to stop pestering them or he would personally give Jin a problem in the form of a filed complaint. Ultimately, he ended up filing three, two for Jin being an annoying little shit, and one for his attempt to drag Newt out of the lab by the belt loops for “important guild business, you wouldn’t understand.”

As the door slammed behind him and Aleksis pushed him up against it, Newt realized something.

“You assholes,” he said. “You got Kris to fake that delivery email to me, didn’t you?”

The fluorescent above him sputtered into life, casting everyone in the room in a sickly green color. If it weren’t for the groady sink and the shelves of cleaning agent and the sad little mop propped up next to the sadder-looking yellow garbage pail of a mop cart, Newt would have felt like he was in some old police procedural movie, being good-copped, bad-copped, and…weird-copped by Aleksis, Sasha, and Jin in that order.

Sasha gave him look that managed, somehow, to be both smug and long-suffering at the same time. “You gave us no choice,” she said in a tone that matched it. “She is now one of us. On our side.”

“Wait. You told her about this sh—”Newt rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Oh, uncool, guys. Majorly uncool. I mean, sure, she’s a friend, but she’s still an ex. Like she wants to hear about me and Hermann –”

A kazoo blasted in his ear.

“Jesus Ch— No!” Newt jerked out of Aleksis’ grip and slapped the offending instrument from Jin’s mouth.

“Hey!” Jin whined as Newt kicked it under a shelving unit.

Newt shoved a finger in his face. “No! Bad! No more kazoo! Ever! And no more barging into our lab and saying weird shit, either. Do you even know what a dick mood Hermann was in _all day_ because of you?”

The three of them looked at him expectantly.

Newt sighed. “You know what the shitty thing is? When I didn’t answer your emails or run into, I dunno, _Cherno_ or _Danger_ ’s bay doing cartwheels, I thought you guys would get it. I really did!”

“Mother. Fucker,” Jin groaned. “You chickened out! I knew it. Didn’t I say I knew it, Sasha?”

“Chicken?” Aleksis asked. “Oh,” he amended, when Sasha said a few words in Russian.

“No. For your information, Jin, no I did not ‘chicken out.’” Newt sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It was, uh, kind of worse than that.”

“Worse?” Sasha asked with a frown.

“How…much worse?” Jin asked with one that looked like its clone.

“Uh…well, so you know when you really love someone and you try to tell them all night after you’ve gone over what to say like five million times, except there’s no good time to say it, so you just kiss them on the ferry ride home and they think you were just being your usual fucked-up, overwrought self and then won’t actually talk to you about it? That kind of worse.”

“What.” Jin groaned. “We practically gave you _freaking cue cards_!”

“He went full-out Kierkegaard on me! I _panicked_!”

“He is not talk to you?” Aleksis scowled.

“No,” Newt sighed. “He says we had an emotional night—and it was. The guy that owns the restaurant lost some family to Reckoner, and you know what Hermann gets like when he sees people grieve—or, hell, when he sees people who actually are affected by the Kaiju. It’s like he never heard of distance or objectivity then.”

_I hate that, but I love that about him._

“So, yeah. He was going on like he does about how we have to personally save the world, and I just….” Newt sighed and ground the heels of his palms against his forehead, wrapping his fingers in his bangs and pulling. “Aaaagh! I am such a fuck-up! _Fuck_ me!”

The next thing he knew, Aleksis had him in a bear of a hug.

“You are not fuck-up,” he insisted. “Never fuck-up. Hermann is fuck-up.”

“No, Aleksis, he’s not….” Newt shook his head.

But Aleksis just frowned and shook his head. “Hermann is wrong,” he insisted.

“Yes, Hermann is. Oh, Newsha,” Sasha murmured as she stroked his hair.

Newt laughed and shook his head again. “I just…really, really suck at this. I blew it. Royally. And I’d rather have what we did and never say anything than whatever awkward avoiding each other thing we have going on now.”

“Seriously, Newt? You can’t just say, ‘I love you, and I think we should be together’? Like, how hard is that?”

Newt lifted his head up off Aleksis’ shoulder. “Shut up, Jin. You know what? You go tell Bev up in LOCCENT the same thing, if it’s so easy!”

“Yeah, okay, but I haven’t known Bev for ten years, so that’d be weird, even for me,” Jin retorted. “We really, really should’ve waited for Raleigh,” he murmured, looking back and forth between the two Russians. “This situation clearly exceeds our considerable expertise.”

“Guys…he’s gonna be back from teaching Sunday school soon. I don’t know what to do.”

But before anyone could think of what to tell him, someone had pounded n the door. “I don’t care what you do, but do it somewhere else! I need my cart! Or do you people really have a burning desire to clean shipping bay 3B yourselves?”

And, well, that had ended that discussion, since everyone had to get back to work anyway.

Back in the lab, Newt had fished Tiamat’s bisected heart out of its tank and put it on the dissection table, only to realize that his choice for exploring today had a certain, ugly irony in the non-ironic sense. God, but his life was just full of that lately, wasn’t it?

But turned out he’d made the right choice. If anything could distract him from last night’s Hermann-related disaster, it was definitely carving up a Kaiju aorta. By the time Hermann wandered back in from his CCD class, Newt was shoulder-deep in what seemed to pass for a chamber of the Kaiju organ and too involved with his recorder to give Hermann more than an enthusiastic wave from the depths.

 _But I can’t stay in here forever, as much as I might like to_ , he thought as Hermann returned the greeting.

***

(Sunday afternoon.)

Hermann studied the two sets of data closely, frowned, and toggled back two months, three months, then four months. Just as he had done so for the last two hour, checking and rechecking each line, each number, each reading. He thought of running it again, for the third time, but given the identicalness of his findings on both previous analyses, doing so truly felt like a waste of time—time the world may not have.

The problem was so obvious, it hurt. Physically hurt.

“Newton?” his voice was a high, wavery thing, a bow ghosting across a saw. He cleared his throat, swallowed a mouthful of lemon tea, and attempted the name again. “N-Newton?”

He glanced over his shoulder and found his colleague looking up at him gloved arms buried nearly up to the elbows in Tiamat’s heart. Hermann was far too nervous to give much thought at all to the stench of ammonia, alien, and something biological that would degenerate into Kaiju Blue if not preserved correctly and fastidiously.

“Yeah?” he asked, extracting himself from the gory cavity, a frown creasing his brow. “Everything okay?”

 _He has been acting bizarrely today—moving at three-quarter time, and should he really be mucking about in an alien when he is not at his best?_ Hermann ignored the thought; he could ask Newton about it later. “Come and look at this for me. I need to know if I’m mistaken.”

“Uh… okay.” Newton hooked the lip of his right glove with two fingers and tugged it down his arm. “But you do know I’m not a data drone, right?”

“Just come here!” Hermann snapped. “Please,” he added in a slightly more conciliatory tone.

“Sure, man. Sure.” Newt stripped off the other glove and tossed both carelessly onto the nubby metal floor. He strolled across the demarcation line and leaned over Hermann’s shoulder to study the readouts on the monitor. Hermann swallowed another mouthful of tepid tea and tried to ignore the tang of coffee, sugar, musk, and far too much ammonia. Now was certainly _not_ the time to think of the shambles of his own messy heart.

“Well?” he asked after several minutes of Newton saying only, “Hmm,” in thoughtful tones.

“Yeah,” he replied, running his hand over his stubbly chin. “Yeah, Hermann. I mean, I don’t do data mining—shit, I would rather kick myself in the ass with _Cherno_ ’s boot than do what your techs did, especially with you _hovering_ all the t—“

“Newton! Come to the point, if you please!”

“Okay, Hermann. Jeesh. Chill out. I’m the one that’s supposed to be high-strung.” Newt rubbed his chin again, as if he liked the roughness against his fingertips. “Yeah, I mean, something looks weird here with MOOR 3.” He tapped the screen. “Oh man…” he turned his head to Hermann. “You don’t think—”

“Yes.” Hermann removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyebrows. “The mooring is either malfunctioning or damaged. But why”—he replaced his glasses—“didn’t the program log these errors? They are extensive—”

He felt the blood drain from his face.

“Oh God help me,” he whispered.

“What? What is it?”

“The program itself!” Hermann swiveled in his seat to look at him. “Newton, the data mining program the moorings use—when we—my team and I—designed it, as with any program, we built in tolerances. A—for example, none of the moorings can take readings for negative data. And in the event that a mooring starts spewing garbage”—he thumped his knuckle against the screen—“our program is supposed to log the errors. Only that isn’t what the program did! Therefore, when I combed through the logs on Friday, I saw nothing amiss! No, no. I had to go through each line of data with a comb—and oh, thank God that I did!—until I found readings that made no sense!”

“Okay…,” Newton said cautiously. “But you want to be sure, right?”

“Yes. I will not call Dr. Kettering or send her the logs unless I am reasonably certain—unless I have ruled out all other possibilities to the best of my knowledge—that this is indeed the issue. Newton, please take terminal 2.” He gestured at the monitor on the other side of his desk.

“Wait…Hermann, seriously, I’m not—”

“Newton, please!” Hermann grabbed his hands and squeezed. “I have no technicians to do this with me, and I must check a significant amount of data to be certain—over a period of several months, perhaps even dating back as far as 2023. And we must check all four moorings as well. If I must send a Jaeger down for repairs, I would rather not do it more times than absolutely necessary. I can do the data mining myself, yes, but it will take time we cannot afford. Please, I—I can’t—”

Newton squeezed back. “Okay, baby,” he whispered. “Shh. Okay. Damn it, those puppy eyes you do should be illegal. I mean, I can’t promise I’ll be as good as your techs, but I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you. Truly, I—I do not mean to—”

“It’s fine, man.” Newton pulled away from his grip slowly. “Just, um, let me go and put tall, green, and ugly’s blood machine back in the vat, and I’m all yours.” He pointed a finger at him accusingly. “But you owe me. Big-time. Because I totally meant what I said about that ass-kicking from _Cherno_. And we can start by letting me brew some coffee before I give myself a headache.”

“Only if you put the kettle on as well,” Hermann said before swinging his chair back around to the computer and sliding on his earpiece.

It would be a long night, indeed, and they would both need the caffeine.

Naturally, only Dr. Kettering’s answering machine was there to take his call, given the time difference. Hermann left her a brief message asking her to contact him as soon as she could. He barely heard the shrilling of the kettle and acknowledged Newton only with the sparest of nods as he placed two teacups beside him, both smelling strongly of earl gray, cream, and sugar.

Without further ado, they settled in to work.

***

“Hermann?” Newt shook his shoulder gently. “Hermann?” Then harder when he got no response. “Hey…Hermann?”

“Y-yes?” his colleague finally tore his gaze from the screen and blinked at him owlishly. Newt bit back a wince at how tired those eyes seemed—nearly black with fatigue, reddened just a bit with strain.”

“You’ve been staring at that thing for two hours,” Newt said as he glanced at the screen. “And we need dinner so—”

No. No way was he seeing what he thought he did.

“Uh, Hermann? Is there some reason why you’re not using a script to look at this?”

Hermann just shook his head.

“Okay…,” Newt tried, “so does that mean no reason or—”

“My coding may still have gotten us into this fiasco, Newton. I cannot trust it now.”

“Wait wh—” Jesus. When Hermann was starting to freak out, you knew things were bad. “Okay, Hermann. Away from the desk. We’re going down to the caf. And we’re eating dinner there.”

“But I—”

Newt held up his hands. “Sorry, my man, but when the guy who programmed _Yukon Brawler_ and nearly gave us a fucking _Mach 1_ Jaeger with a quantum computer—”

“Merely a fancy,” Hermann sniffed. “The cold fusion of computer science.”

“No!” Hermann winced, and Newt realized he’d just shouted that. “No,” he said more gently, “you are not going to verbally punch yourself in the balls tonight, okay?” He cupped Hermann’s face and held it steady. “You,” he said, “are the most irritating person in the world. But you are the god damned Shakespeare of coding.”

“Newton….”

Fuck, but his skin was soft. Not a single patch of stubble, either. How the hell _did_ he do that? “You combing though data line by line is like, shit, it’s like Miyazaki directing _Chipmunks 12: The Squeakening_.”

“I have absolutely no idea who that is. Or what that is.”

“Not the point, man.” Newt walked both hands to the back of Hermann’s neck and kneaded the base of his occipital bone. “Yeah, look, baby. You’re all knotted up here, just like you are when you’re about ready to melt from stress.”

“Quiet.” Hermann closed his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Forty-five minutes,” Newt said as he continued rubbing Hermann’s neck. “Fifteen to get down and back in that bullshit elevator, and thirty to eat. The caf’s right there when you get out, so that’s doable, right?”

“We haven’t the time, Newton.” But his voice was doing that little catchy thing it did when he wasn’t sure, when he wanted to be talked into something but wouldn’t let himself.

 _Well_ , Newt thought, _good!_

“We’ll stay up all night if we have to, and I guaran-frigging-tee I will work until breakfast with you, and until lunch, and until next evening if we have to. Hand to God.”

“Don’t blaspheme.” Hermann rolled his head to the side, eyes closed now, long lashes fluttering. “Let your yes mean yes, Newton; your no mean no.”

_Fucking fuck. Forget Helen of Troy. Those lashes could launch a thousand Jaegers._

“But we are going to eat now, okay? And when we get back, you’re writing some scripts and letting them work for you while you do your alchemy or magic or whatever it is with the source code. That’s what needs your real attention now, right?”

“Yes,” Hermann murmured.

“Okay.” Newt rubbed a few seconds longer to ease up a particularly large knot before releasing his neck. “And, man, it’ll totally be worth it! Tendo told me earlier that they have meat on the menu that’s actually identifiable! And fresh fruit.”

Hell yeah that got Hermann’s attention. But really, someone in the Shatterdome ought to do something about making the way he licked his lips at the mention of produce illegal.

“Forty-five minutes, Newton,” Hermann told him as he straightened his left leg and reached for his cane. “I will be keeping time.”

“Oh, man, believe me,” Newt said as he wrapped his arm in Hermann’s, “I’d really think you were fucked if you didn’t.”

***

Hermann hated when Newton was right, and in his opinion, Newton had been right entirely too many times of late. No, that was not his opinion—it was a scientific fact.

And if he didn’t have much better things to do at the moment, heaven willing, he would have explained to Newton exactly why this was so.

But, of course, the meal had been not merely nourishing, but restorative. They had even eaten quickly enough for Newton to massage his hands—which, if Hermann were honest, had been aching from the nonstop typing and scrolling.

“Need to be nicer to these,” Newton had grumbled, as if he were actually angry at the knotted muscles between Hermann’s knuckles. “Honest to God, bro. You pound on that keyboard like a—like a Kaiju playing Beethoven or something. Unreal.”

And though Hermann had responded with a glare, he had to admit his hands felt much better after the treatment. Newton, for all his—many, oh dear saints, very many!—faults was nonetheless a skilled massage therapist. Hermann wondered if that sort of thing came naturally to biologists.

With a fresh cup of tea—a jasmine-and-rose-petal tisane this time to soothe his now-caffeinated nerves—Hermann quickly assembled a script to look for values in the past months of data that did not make sense and set it to run through Gauss and Franklin’s logs. He then set about examining the source code itself, a process that had, once upon a happier time, been carried out with some regularity by the many technicians under his authority, then by fewer and fewer as the United Nations cut ever closer to K-Science’s bones, until no one touched the algorithms at all.

It was, Hermann supposed as he scrolled through each line, rather like airing out a room for a new tenant in which someone had died.

When Hermann immersed himself in the lines of a source code, time—or that strange construction the human brain had erected by which to make sense of it—ceased to exist. He measured progress solely by the level of liquid in his teacup, and by the color, nose, and palate of that liquid. Jasmine-and-rose tisane gave way to piney rooibos, earthy pu ehr, and nutty genmai cha.

“Dude, how is it that you haven’t sprung a leak yet?” Newton asked as he replaced the empty teacup with one that smelled enticingly of lavender.

“Mhm. Quite,” Hermann said absently as he tracked through the algorithms.

“How’s it coming?” A hand upon his shoulder and the smell of coffee, musk, and ammonia alerted him to Newton’s presence at his side.

“Nothing,” Hermann admitted. “But the errors could be farther along. Oh, I do not relish tearing this entire code to ribbons, Newton, let me tell you.”

“Hey, like my mom always says, don’t borrow trouble. You’ll just have to pay more interest later.” Newton slurped his coffee, sending unpleasant shivers down Hermann’s back.

“How many times must I tell you not to do that?” he snapped as he toggled over to Gauss and Franklin’s readings.

“Huh? Oh. Right. Sorry.”

 _Someone ought to outlaw slurping in this Shatterdome_ , Hermann seethed as he checked the moorings’ data. _Or human resources should at least pretend to take my complaints about it seriously. It is—_

The error log for Gauss disrupted the thought and scattered it like sand.

“Oh my goodness.”

“What? What is it?”

Hermann slammed his hands against the keys and scrolled through the log that the script was still—still!—in the process of generating. “These errors are extensive,” he said. “Reasonable to suspect they would be, yes, but currently they date well back to October of last year.” He looked up at Newton.

“Oh.” Newt splayed his hand through his disheveled hair. “Oh, uh, shit.”

“Quite.” Hermann pushed his glasses up his nose and sighed. “Goodness, what a fiasco.”

Newton nodded and raised his coffee mug to his lip, then slowly lowered it to the desk. He flicked his fingers against the screen, right on the offending moorings’ number. “Wait….” He squinted at it. “MOOR 3. Isn’t that—”

“Gauss. Yes.”

It was as if someone had plugged Newt into a light socket. His green eyes widened, and his mouth pulled into a clownish grin. “Gauss,” he drawled. “Oh, man. No way. No way it’s—”

“No, Newton. Don’t say it,” Hermann groaned. “Please don’t say it.”

“Magikarp.” Newton snickered. “Y-you’re telling me that fucking Magikarp—”

“Mooring 3 is named _Gauss_!”

Newton doubled over laughing, nearly knocking his coffee from the desk. “Magikarp…fuckin’ Magikarp…” he wheezed.

Hermann slammed his fist into the desk and immediately regretted the gesture as pain spiked through his right hand. “Newton!” he shouted, harsher than he intended as the nerve endings crackled. “Confound it, this is serious!”

Newton removed his glasses and wiped at his eyes as he straightened. “Oh man, you have no idea how serious! M-Magikarp used Splash! It’s s-super ineffective!”

At least that was what Hermann thought he’d said. Somewhere in the middle of all that, Newton had doubled over, howling with laughter.

“Newton!” Hermann shouted. “Control yourself!”

“Magikarp used Splash! It… Oh-oh my God….”

“Newton!” Hermann grabbed his head and pulled his face up. “You are not making any sense,” he told the wide green eyes, the disjointed mouth.

The realization hit with the force of a Jaeger’s fist.

“Are you having a panic attack?”

Newton’s face broke into a smile that was not at all beautiful as he attempted to control his snickering. “No-no. Well, okay, shoving three cups of coffee down my throat like nine hours after taking a Xanax probably wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but no, I’m just—I mean—” He snickered. “Sorry. You ever had one of those moments where something was just so funny, you couldn’t stop laughing, even though the situation around it wasn’t funny? Like laughing in the middle of a funeral? No. No, probably not.”

Hermann frowned. “You didn’t tell me about this.”

Newton shrugged. “It was just a panic attack, Hermann. I get them all the time.”

“Yes, but that bottle was prescribed to you for, and I quote, ‘emergencies only.’” Hermann smoothed his hands through his colleague’s hair. “What was the emergency, Newton? What precipitated it?”

Newton opened his mouth, and for a moment, Hermann thought he was about to tell him something. His green eyes looked full, as if they were open windows trying nonetheless to hide a secret.

“Shitty brain chemistry,” he said instead. “Really, Hermann. You know what a brain does when it has, like, no dopamine, right? I just had negative dopamine today, I guess.”

Another Jaeger fist struck him.

_Oh, God forgive me. And I’ve been pushing him the entire time._

And another.

_And when he truly was frightened that I am angry with him at that! Oh, but I am a very selfish, ignorant man._

“We’re good, Newton.”

“What?” His colleague snorted. “Well, dude, _obviously_. I mean, we’re doing, like, the work of fifty people in half the time and—”

“You misunderstand.” Hermann took Newton’s hands and folded them in his own. “We’re good. That is the proper expression, isn’t it? When saying that no offense has been caused, and one’s relationship remains as it was?”

Newton just stared at him, mouth opening and closing. Hermann would have liked nothing better than to lean in and kiss it, but, well…that was what had gotten them into trouble in the first place, hadn’t it?

“I am neither angry with you, nor do I feel there need be any awkwardness nor enmity between us—well, any more enmity than usual.”

He had hoped for a chuckle, and Newton rewarded him with one.

“Though, I confess I was somewhat surprised by your kiss,” Hermann admitted. “But not angry. Certainly not.”

Newton’s jaw continued to hang open. “Okay,” he said. “Not angry is good.”

“So, please….no more worry.” Hermann squeezed his hands. “Nothing has changed.”

“Yeah…yeah, nothing. Nothing’s also good.”

“Thank you.”

“H-huh?”

Hermann released one of his hands and gripped the edge of the computer’s desk to lever himself to his feet. “Your help has been nothing short of phenomenal tonight, and it is…appreciated beyond what I can express in words. But if you required tranquilizers earlier today, you would do well to rest—if only because their effects are soporific.” He fetched his cane from the hook at the side of the desk. “Quite frankly, I’m astounded that you were able to work at all today.”

“Well, yeah. _Coffee_ ,” Newton said as if correcting an error in Hermann’s calculus. “Oh, don’t shake your head! You needed help. Who else were you gonna call, exactly? Rent-a-Ph.d?”

He gasped when Hermann threw his arms around his waist and drew him against his body.

_Oh, you fool. You dear, sweet, entirely frustrating fool. If I didn’t love you quite beyond all reason, I would strangle you. I might do so, regardless._

“H-hermann?” Newton squeaked.

“Please lie down.”

Another squeak.

“All that remains now, Newton, is for me to examine the source code. Unless you have expertise in coding about which you have denied out of modesty, I’m afraid I am the only person who can accomplish this, Ph.ds being, as you have noted, hardly rentable. You can best help me now by resting.”

“Oh.”

Much as he was loath to do so, Hermann eased away from his body. It would do no good to hold him overlong, particularly as the scent of coffee on his breath was strong enough to potentially cause a far direr situation than an ill-advised and poorly handled kiss.

“I’ve a great deal of work ahead to repair and recalibrate at least one mooring, if not more than one. You will be of more use in that process than you will be playing ‘data drone’ tonight. Don’t fear—I will wake you in the event that you can be of some use—though I am not optimistic about that.”

“Still gotta take a jab at my credentials, huh?”

“Come along, Newton. Though if you can’t sleep after mixing coffee with tranquilizers, I suppose I will understand.”

When he twined his fingers through Hermann’s own, Newton squeezed his hand in return.

Although his colleague had the lion’s share of the laboratory, due largely to the extraordinary needs of maintaining what was essentially a Kaiju morgue, Hermann’s side had the Sanctuary, a small nook that had been used as cold storage for Kaiju organs in 2015, and from then on out as a sort of junk closet for malfunctioning or redundant equipment that could, potentially, be improved upon or salvaged for spare parts. Upon their recent return to Hong Kong for a third “tour of duty,” as Newton jestingly referred to it, Newton and his “guild” had kindly cleared it of the rusting scrap and turned it into a much-needed lounge area. Though the space was relatively small, they had somehow managed to comfortably fit in a sofa bed, a coffee table, and a low bookshelf above which Hermann had mounted icons of his patron saints Francis of Assisi and Ignatius Loyola, the Blessed Virgin, and the Sacred Heart without any objection from Newton. Indeed, he had even remained silent photograph of his favorite—and the most current—pontiff, Ignatius I, and the Order of St. Sylvester said pope had awarded to him in 2021.

“Dude, why would I say anything?” he’d asked, when Hermann had cheekily remarked upon his silence. “That was, like, the happiest day of your life.” He had also been quite kind about the candles Hermann burned there upon occasion.

If he could not have a proper chapel then, by Jove, he would make his own! An unusual chapel, though, for the pair of them, sometimes separately and occasionally together, had often rested upon the sofa or the bed within when returning to their shared room after hours at work seemed an unbearable task for both body and spirit.

Hermann led his colleague there now, his hand clasped tightly about Newton’s to both keep him on track and because he feared the other man would attempt to break away, insist that he was “good to go” until dawn, and thus work himself to sickness or nervous exhaustion.

“I’m really not that tired, though,” Newton protested, even as Hermann draped a soft, green afghan over his prone body. “Just kind of, you know, spaced out a bit.”

“Indeed.” Hermann plumped the pillow beneath his head, then carefully placed Newton’s glasses on the coffee table. “A precursor, always, to a slow drift into sleep.”

As if to prove his point, a yawn shuddered from Newton’s mouth.

“You really like being right, don’t you?” he asked when it had run its course.

“Not nearly as much as you enjoy reminding me of it.”

“God, you suck.” Newton moved onto his side and looked at Hermann with the stunning green eyes that never failed to make his pulse flutter in his throat. “You promise you’ll wake me up if—”

Those eyes suddenly widened, and their trajectory moved down Hermann’s face.

“Newton?”

They seemed to be gazing at his lips…could he…?

No. Oh no.

His neck. Definitely his neck.

Hermann tried to remain calm as he rewrapped the scarf about his throat. The lighting was dimmer in here, his throat at an angle. Perhaps Newton had not seen the bite.

“Rest,” he told him again. “Or, so be it, I will file a complaint about your disobedience.”

Newton stared at him for a moment as if he wanted to speak.

_Make nothing of it. Dismiss it as a trick of the light and your overtired imagination, and your current weakened eyesight. Please, Newton._

He nearly gasped in relief when he was rewarded with a tired smile.

“Hermann, please. You so do not outrank me.”

“Oh, but I’m afraid I do. I joined the PPDC in 2015—you, my upstart friend, did not join our ranks until a year later.”

“Uh-huh.” Newton burrowed into the afghans. “Mn, call me stupid, but I don’t think that’s how this kind of thing works—except in your own little fantasy world, I mean. Because who knows what’s up there?”

“ _Rest_ ,” Hermann repeated.

“Fine, all right. Bossy.”

Hermann waited by the sofa until, approximately five minutes later, Newton’s breath deepened and grew heavy in sleep.

 _My illustrated man_ , he thought. _Even when you are done with me, I’m afraid I will remain at your side. You hold my heart as surely as you do what remains of that Kaiju’s—it is yours, always will be yours, even though you do not want it._

A terrible thought, and one he did not need right now. Slowly, with one last look at his colleague, Hermann returned to the laboratory, pausing only long enough to close the makeshift curtain over their equally makeshift Sanctuary from the troubles of their imperiled world.

He had much work to do.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermann discovers an error in the source code--and something he never expected to see. Aleksis is acting strangely--and hey, look! It's Chuck and Herc. Hi, Hansens!

(Monday morning.)

Hermann was well into a plate of eggs and sausage and yet another cup of tea—a hearty Irish breakfast blend this time—when he spotted it. A line of code that was most definitely broken.

“Eureka,” he whispered. “I’ve caught you, you nasty little error. Now, do you have any friends, I wonder?”

He paged down farther as he sipped at the cup, then abruptly dropped it to the floor. He barely heard the sound of shattering ceramic as the screen before him turned into a jumble of brackets, commands, and characters.

“No,” he whispered, his fingers tapping furiously across the keys. “No. No. Oh, no, no, no. No!”

Until now, the source code had been a meticulously constructed work of art—the programming equivalent of The Sistine Chapel’s ceiling or one of Bach’s fugues. Hermann tried to be humble, he truly did, but humility was never his strongest virtue and he was proud, truly proud, of the cathedral of commands and numbers he and his team had put together.

Only now, the buttresses were fractured, the transept compromised, the rose window shattered.

No, not ruined, he realized. Thank God, not ruined. But cluttered, as if someone had pushed the pews into a pile, littered the floor with altar cloths, and tipped the confessional onto its side.

“Oh, the fools,” he snarled. “The—the—”

He would not curse. It was not appropriate. Not—

“The—confounded—irresponsible—amateurish— _verdammt_ fools!”

Someone had failed to indent at least eighty percent of the source code!

“No!”

Hermann pressed a fist against his open mouth and screamed into it until his eyes watered.

Thank all the saints his techs were no longer with him. He would have lined them up in a row and beaten each and every one of them senseless with his cane. He would have continued beating them, and —

_Control yourself! This is not how a follower of Christ thinks!_

Hermann shook his head, bowed it, and let his chest fall in and out, in and out, in and out. He imagined the beads of his favorite rosary, the work of art in pewter and blue goldstone that had been his only baptismal gift, warm and solid between his thumb and index finger. He did not look up until he had gone through two decades.

He was still furious, but at least now the wrath had left him.

Despair, however…

Shaking, Hermann paged up to the last line of sensible coding and tried to fight back the stinging in this eyes that threatened to turn into an overflow.

_This will take—oh God help me, I do not know how long this will take to make legible, especially as it may also require extensive repairs! It will be akin to looking for a—for needle in entire silos of hay! How on earth can I possibly do it alone? Even with Newton’s help, this may well take us days. We’ve no money to hire back any of our former technicians. And quite frankly, I don’t trust the lot of them now. There is no one else. No one but us. My God, I’ve no time for this! I must be monitoring the Breach! I must be speaking with Kettering about implementing her model until, at the very least, I can ascertain what has happened to mine. What am I to do?_

Despite his fondness for the rosary and all the prayers of the mass, Hermann regularly confessed that he had a difficult time speaking extempore to the Trinity, or any of the saints who could have interceded with them on his behalf. He found he never knew what to say and therefore often rambled into embarrassed silence.

Now, however….

Hermann crossed himself and knit his fingers together on his lap.

 _Saints Ignatius and Francis—and Saint Isadore of Sevile_ he thought. _For surely, St. Isadore, this is your area of expertise… I daresay I am not at all well-spoken, or at all strong enough in my faith to routinely pray as I should, from my heart. I am sorry for it, and I am sorry for coming to you as a child, demanding that you fix what is broken without preamble. But, please…I cannot, even with Newton’s help, go through this source code alone. Please…I beg you, pray for me to find help. To find a way, so that I may return to far more crucial work. Please, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen._

There seemed to be nothing left to say, so Hermann crossed himself and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

_Slow down, baby. Try to think. What can you do now? Right now?_

The thought surprised him, and not only because it came both unbidden and in Newton’s voice and phrasing.

The moorings.

If a Jaeger crew were available, they could begin repairs.

One thing at a time, yes?

Hermann reached for his earpiece and called up the V2V program. As he inserted it, he pressed the icon for the marshal’s office.

“Hansen speaking,” a man with a thick Australian accent answered.

Hermann frowned and adjusted his earpiece, thinking he must have momentarily fallen into a reverie. “Marshal Hansen?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” the same warm baritone replied. “What can I do for you, Dr. Gottlieb?”

“I confess, I had expected—”

“Pentecost?” Hansen finished with a good-humored chuckle. “Not at this hour, sorry. It’s 0800. I’ve got the morning shift today.”

Hermann blinked and glanced at the clock in the lower right-hand corner of the monitor. 0803. “Oh. Oh yes, of course. My apologies, sir.” He stifled a yawn. This morning’s upset had drained him, no doubt.

“No worries. Something I can help you with, Doctor?”

“Yes. In the midst of determining why my predicative model failed, I have conclusive proof that two of our moorings—1 and 3—have malfunctioned and are in need of repairs.” Remembering that Hansen lacked the scientific understanding of his counterpart, he added, “These are a vital part of our system for monitoring the Breach.”

“Got it. Okay.”

“Unfortunately, I have no choice but to request the help of _Cherno Alpha_ ’s team, given that Mr. and Ms. Kaidonovsky initially set up our moorings and therefore will not need much in the way of explanation about what must be done.”

“No problem, Doctor.” Hermann heard the faint sound of a keyboard being tapped. “Matter of fact, they just went on duty about ninety minutes ago. Want me to send them up to you?”

Hermann was about to say yes when his gaze fell upon the drawn curtain. Even if they were to whisper, Newton would likely waken, light sleeper that he was. 

“No, you needn’t trouble them, sir. But, if you would please ask them to wait for me there, unless they have urgent business elsewhere. In the interest of time.”

“Sure thing, Doctor. Might as well join you myself, since I’ll need a briefing on this sooner or later.”

“Yes. That would be good, as I have more to report that only concerns you.”

“Listen, I’ll send someone around with transportation. Those stairs leading down to level 1 can be a right pain in the arse. Might as well not make you walk half a mile after that.”

Hermann felt his cheeks heat. He liked Marshal Hansen—indeed, it would be difficult not to—but he would never get used to the familiarity with which he spoke to everyone, equals and inferiors alike. “Erm, quite,” he said. “Thank you, Marshal. Oh, and if you can ask that a holo be set up for me, it would save _Cherno_ and her crew additional time.”

“On it, Doctor. See you in twenty or so.”

Hermann closed the link and removed his earpiece.

“Stairs,” he hissed. “The Ventura to my Dr. the Monarch.”

No.

Dash it all. That wasn’t right.

Just as well Newton wasn’t awake to correct him, then.

His colleague was still asleep when Hermann moved the curtain aside, sprawled at an impossible angles on the large sofa, afghans askew across his body. Sighing, Hermann tucked him in as best he could and affixed a sticky note to the pillow the man had chosen to embrace.

_Newton:_

_I have found errors in the source code! But incompetent tech(s)’s work has made locating them all difficult (more on this when I return). I suspect strongly that Gauss and Franklin have sustained damage and am asking that all four be checked. I am meeting with Marshal Hansen and Cherno’s team in Bay 5 for briefing on this mission. Do NOT touch any keyboards! I am running several diagnostics and using both my working terminals to do so._

_Also, please do try to get some rest. You are no help to me overworked and exhausted._

_\- H.G._

Goodness, but his penmanship was hideous. And to think his calligraphy had once been the pride of his entire year. Still, there was nothing to be done.

Before he could think better of it, he leaned down and kissed Newton’s forehead.

“I’ll return to you soon, my dearest,” he whispered. And was it his imagination, or had Newton’s lips turned upward just slightly?

***

Unfortunately, _Cherno Alpha_ ’s bay was situated at nearly the opposite end of the Shatterdome from the K-Science laboratory. Which meant a good jaunt before the dreaded staircase around which there simply was no getting without either an acrobat’s net or a science-fiction jet pack.

Happily, however, a small electrical transport was waiting for him at the bottom, as promised.

“Morning, Dr. Gottlieb,” Charles Hansen said from behind the wheel, offering him a salute.

Hermann returned it. “Ranger Hansen?”

“ _Cherno_ ’s flatbed driver’s got a migraine,” the younger Hansen said, as if that did anything to explain his presence at the equipage’s controls instead.

Hermann raised an eyebrow. “And you were dragooned into the task, I see,” he said as he maneuvered himself onto the seat beside the boy. “A slow morning for _Striker Eureka_ ’s crew?”

The sullen way Charles shrugged indicated that he was terrible at this game of half-concealed truths. “Would’ve asked one of _Tacit_ ’s drivers, but most of ’em are gone now she’s been cut up for scrap.” His voice was as bitter as over-steeped Ceylon—Hermann could sympathize.

“Good of you to volunteer, nonetheless,” he said as the young man brought the transport around and aimed it down the interminable hall that lead to each of the Shatterdome’s six Jaeger bays. 

Charles shrugged again. “No problem,” he said casually. “Someone has to do it, right?” Immediately, he folded his lips over his teeth and frowned as if in self-censure. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to say—”

“Yes, Ranger, I quite understand,” Hermann offered. “And it was good of you to assist me personally. Thank you.”

That got a smile, though Charles did not look at him.

Hermann had tried many times to understand his affection for the other marshal’s son; after failing at each attempt, he had eventually given up. Charles was the summa of the children who had made Hermann’s childhood the best argument for the existence of hell he had yet to see: brash, hotheaded, ill-tempered, spoiled, and disinterested in discipline of any kind. Newton often referred to him as a “jock,” and upon looking up the term, Hermann had found it a good descriptor.

“Bully,” he supposed, was another.

Thankfully, Hermann was no longer the uncertain eleven-year-old who had fled in terror from either. So when, shortly after their relocation to Hong Kong from Lima, Charles had decided to corner Newton in the laboratory for heaven only knew what perceived slight—or, more likely, simply because he was larger and therefore felt he could—Hermann had felt no compunction about responding to the boy in the only way his kind could understand: smashing him in the side with a rolling chair and then tripping him with his cane before Charles could figure out, quite literally, what had hit him.

“If you behave as a naughty child, I will treat you as one,” Hermann had told him as the boy lay on his back. “And I do not believe in sparing the rod.” A bold-faced lie, but Charles had no way of knowing it. “Now you will apologize to my colleague and get the hell out of our laboratory, or reporting this incident to your father and to the rest of this Shatterdome will be the least of what I will do to you.”

He’d worried, just slightly, that Charles would get up and break him against his chalkboard, and he had gripped his cane, expecting to fight both for his life and for Newton’s. He had not expected Charles to apologize hastily and exit the room wearing a bewildered expression, as if he were a Kaiju a human had just bitten by the neck and rolled. He had not expected a personal apology from Marshal Hansen instead of a reprimand for striking an officer. He had certainly not expected Charles to return the next day with a far more sincere apology for them both.

“My old man said I was a right arsehole,” he’d explained. “He was right.”

Newton hadn’t wanted to look at him, and Hermann had dismissed him with a shake of his head. “My religion, Ranger Hansen, mandates that I forgive your appalling behavior. However, you will have to earn my forgetting of it. Now get out of my sight.”

Since then, Charles had behaved around the pair of them if not like a gentleman, then a boy trying desperately to become one. In the end, Hermann supposed his natural fondness for the young had directed him into a strange and somewhat irregular form of mentorship. Naturally, Newton disliked the association, but seeing as Hermann disapproved of the bulk of Newton’s associations while having them far more visible in his own living space, his sympathy was limited.

“So. You have a good weekend, Doctor?”

“Alas, a rather mixed one. To put it succinctly, we have had a serious equipment malfunction in the moorings—the machines—that we use to monitor the Breach, and in the code that runs them. It would appear that this may be responsible for the fact the recent event took us by surprise.”

“Oh. That’s good. Not good it happened, mind, but good you caught it.”

“Indeed. Thank you for asking. And your own, Charles?”

“You know you can call me Chuck, right?” the boy asked as they passed the bay that had formerly housed _Tacit Ronin_.

“Yes, and as I have told you I will, if you insist upon it. But Charles has a certain gravitas, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Guess so.” Charles looked straight ahead. Hermann often wondered if the nervousness he detected from the young man came from fear that he, Hermann, would one day trounce him again, or shyness and confusion; he had the sense that few people truly attempted to treat Charles as if he were a young man and not a child. His own fault in many ways, of course, but no less galling to him, certainly.

The silences that passed between them when they spent time together often crackled with tension, unlike the easy way in which he and Chau could spend an entire dinner in each other’s company without speaking, or the companionable quiet that fell over the laboratory when he and Newton worked on their separate projects. It did not faze Hermann, though; years of teaching young people the rudiments of their faith had made him well-acquainted with the insecurities and fragilities of their age. And, in a way, he supposed Charles reminded him of Dietrich at twenty-one—surly, stubborn, yet vulnerable, at least before he closed off the parts of himself that could feel an iota of human compassion and set his ambition to becoming a simulacra of their father—cruel, and as cold as the concrete and steel of the anti-Kaiju wall that was now their only religion.

He hoped Charles would not make the same errors with his life.

 _Cherno Alpha_ ’s bay was the fifth of the six, and soon enough, Charles had stopped the transport at its steel double doors.

“Need a hand down, Doctor?” he asked as he hopped out.

Typically, Hermann would have told him that he could make it down on his own—however, as it was important for reforming bullies to learn sensitivity to others’ needs, he never refused. “Yes, thank you.”

Charles always squeezed his hand after helping him to the floor, and sometimes he did not immediately release Hermann’s hand, either—most likely to make certain that the man he was assisting had his footing, Hermann thought. Another positive.

“Take care, and, erm, if you need a ride back…well, just have Dad call down to _Striker_ ’s bay. It’s right next door.” He pointed down the hall the way they had come, as if Hermann did not know where to find it. It was, Hermann thought, rather sweet.

“I will. Thank you, Charles.”

The young man nodded. And it was also rather sweet, Hermann thought, that he stood there until the doors closed behind Hermann, as if his passenger might turn back at any moment with another request.

Like all Jaeger bays in Hong Kong’s Shatterdome, _Cherno_ ’s was the length of several football fields, and bustling at all hours with a small army of technicians, custodians, and other service personnel who daily kept the giant mech functioning perfectly, ready for combat at a moment’s notice. As Hermann walked toward the feet of the Mach 1 colossus where he knew he would find her pilots, several of them greeted him with waves, smiles, or quiet nods of recognition before returning to their work.

“ _Zdravstvuj_ ,” Hermann said several times, nodding in return. Though most of _Cherno_ ’s techs could not properly be described as J-scientists, they all knew that a great deal of the Jaeger program itself had been a joint German-Russian venture, of which Hermann, his father, and Dietrich (in somewhat happier times, naturally) had been an integral part.

“Ah, Dr. Gottlieb! _Dobroye utro_!” Sasha said as she strode up to him; her husband remained leaning against _Cherno_ ’s leg, sipping at a large mug from which vines of steam curled upward. She extended her hand.

“ _Dobroye utro_ , Sasha,” Hermann returned the “good morning” as he clasped it uncertainly. The strength with which Sasha squeezed his fingers then and always made him believe the rumor that she had once guarded some of Moscow’s most violent felons. How at odds it seemed with the warmth in the smiles she reserved for him, Newton, and her husband!

“Marshal Hansen says you need our help?” she continued in Russian. Hermann was thankful for it; he was not at all familiar with enough of the Shatterdome’s Russian personnel to ask them for help in remaining conversant.

“Yes.”

“Aleksis!” Sasha shouted, looking over her shoulder. “Get your ass over here! Dr. Gottlieb has an assignment for us.”

Aleksis grunted and heaved himself away from the Jaeger. His entire demeanor was not kind as he approached—indeed, Hermann noted with some alarm, he looked downright angry.

 _Oh._ Then again, he reasoned, his trouble with facial expressions could be playing tricks on him again. Perhaps the ranger was simply tired.

“Good timing,” Hansen said as he emerged from behind two techs pushing the holo display unit he had promised. Despite the heaviness that always seemed to sit upon his brow, he looked alert and crisp in his fatigues. Hermann drew his lower lip into his mouth. He approved.

“Marshal Hansen, good morning,” he greeted with a nod.

“Morning, Doctor. Rangers. Dr. Gottlieb said he’d need a holo to explain a few things to us, so I had one brought round.” He gestured at the techs, who were busy plugging it into a cluster of sockets on the floor. Hermann was pleased to note that a third was pushing a chair toward them as Hansen spoke.

“To business then,” Hermann said. “Rangers, I apologize, but in my haste I did not think to call for a translator, and I do not trust my Russian for this endeavor.”

“No problem,” Sasha told him in English. “I will explain to Aleksis.”

Hermann nodded and stepped toward the holo as the tech switched it on. He removed the slim data strip from his pocket and inserted it into the drive, then seated himself as the machine brought up the schematics of the PPDC’s four moorings.

“You may remember these devices, Rangers. These machines monitor the Breach for temperature changes—which is the basis for the model I use to predict Kaiju attacks.”

Sasha translated this into Russian for her husband, then nodded. “Yes, we remember.”

“Do you recall the schematics?” Hermann said hopefully as he called them up on the display with a few sweeps of his fingers.

Sasha asked her husband, who responded abruptly and in the most clipped tone Hermann had ever heard him use.

_Perhaps he is having a similarly fraught morning. Still, must he be so unpleasant? I am certainly not taking my considerable frustration out upon him!_

“Yes. But we will need copy again. They are not stored in _Cherno_ ’s system.”

“That is fine.” Hermann handed her another data strip. “Everything you will need is here. The moorings in need of repair are 3 and 4.” He circled them with a finger on the holo display. “If you would be amenable to checking 1 and 2 while you are submerged as well, I would be most appreciative. The better not to send you down a second time in case my diagnostics have missed something.”

Sasha translated for Aleksis, who nodded and said a few sentences back in Russian that Hermann could not understand. Sometimes, Aleksis seemed to fall into a dialect that he, Hermann, had never heard before or since. He seemed disinterested throughout Hermann’s review of the moorings’ basic system and an explanation of what repairs he suspected 3 and 4 would require.

_Really, what is his the matter with him? Granted, it is a misery to have one’s day interrupted, but it cannot be helped and is not my fault!_

“I apologize,” Hermann said to them nonetheless, then turned to Hansen. “I have no time estimate for these repairs. I assume, however, that they will be extensive.”

“No problem,” Sasha said as Hansen nodded. “We have light duty today. Perfect timing!”

“Thank you, Rangers. Marshal, is it possible for me to communicate with _Cherno Alpha_ from my, er, battle station in LOCCENT? I can easily patch in to my computer in the laboratory from there, and as we have seen in the past, communications from the laboratory to an active Jaeger are…problematic.”

“Don’t see why not,” Hansen said with a nod. “I’ll tell Tendo we’re on your way up. Can you brief me on the rest as we go, Doctor? Or do you still need this holo?”

“I should be able to without it. Rangers? Have you any questions before we begin?”

After a brief conferral with her husband, Sasha assured them they did not. As they walked away, however, Hermann thought he heard Aleksis murmur “little liar.” When Sasha hissed at him to “shut your fat mouth, or I’ll shut it for you,” he was certain of it.

 _What on earth would he accuse me of lying about?_ he thought, feeling his cheeks heat. _I am honest to a fault—though, yes, I suppose not so very honest of late. But that is not—”_

“Dr. Gottlieb? Want me to get Chuck to bring that transport back round?” 

Realizing he was still staring after the rangers, Hermann turned his chair around to face Hansen. “Yes, marshal. That would be very helpful.” The circuitous route they would have to take to get to LOCCENT that would spare Hermann’s legs a few long staircases would have been nearly impossible without it. 

Hansen spoke into his radio as they began walking back to the doors, first to Tendo to let him know Hermann would need to work there for the day, and then to ask Chuck to return for them. 

“Volunteered himself when he found out it was you that needed it,” Hansen explained as they walked. “Wouldn’t have done something like that last year. I wanted to thank you for that, Dr. Gottlieb.” 

“You did?” Hermann asked as they passed a flurry of technician carrying a great length of frayed cable. 

“I know that run-in you had with my son your first month back here was…” Hansen’s sigh seemed to spread through his entire body. “Well, let’s face it. He can be a downright arsehole sometimes, pardon the language. I wanted to thank you for being patient with him after all that. He doesn’t know how to say it to you, but he appreciates it too.” 

“Your thanks is also appreciated, Marshal, but not necessary. It is my duty to assist all who act in good faith, no matter their past transgressions.” 

Hansen smiled. The effect was…stunning. “When this is all over, Doctor, I hope you’ll consider teaching. You’d make a damn fine one.” 

“Believe me, Marshal, it is my fondest desire.” 

__My fondest after the one I can never hope to have, of course. ____

___***_ _ _

___(Monday. 0100 hours.)_ _ _

___The repairs lasted well into the afternoon, and through four cups of Earl Grey tea that Tendo kept placing before him after Hermann asked if he could have something other than coffee._ _ _

___“You bet!” Tendo had grinned, bumping Hermann’s shoulder lightly as he passed. “Anything for my favorite godson.”_ _ _

___“Only godson,” Hermann chuckled. “And the correct term, Mr. Choi, is _sponsor_. I was not a child when confirmed.”_ _ _

___“Can’t hear you over the tea kettle, Doc!” Tendo had shouted, despite the kettle being not hot enough yet to even ping._ _ _

___“Really, I’ve no idea who is more impossible; you or Newton,” Hermann told him when he returned with a steaming mug of—bagged tea! Ugh. He supposed he had no choice but to make do._ _ _

___“Too easy. The answer to that question is always the person you love more.”_ _ _

___“What?”_ _ _

___But Tendo was already halfway across the room, whistling innocently._ _ _

___Hermann chose to ignore him in favor of letting _Cherno_ ’s pilots know he was at his station and ready when they were to proceed._ _ _

___As he had predicted, the required repairs were extensive, as well as difficult for a machine as large as a Jaeger to perform, even using the armatures designed to assist them. More than once, he had to ask Aleksis to please stop cursing as he could fully understand those words. With the moorings repaired and checked—and Lovelace and Turing functioning well within normal parameters—Hermann had returned to his laboratory to get on with his day._ _ _

___He had just returned to the source code when the V2V feature on his computer chirped with an incoming call._ _ _

___“Dr. Gottlieb?” Alyce Kettering said when he answered. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I had back-to-back meetings all day, and one crisis after another.” She sounded as tired as Hermann felt; in sympathy, he stifled a long succession of yawns._ _ _

___“Quite all right, Dr. Kettering. And I appreciate you ringing at such a late hour,” Hermann said with a glance at the world clock on his desktop. Twenty-three hundred in Los Angeles! He wiped the water from his eyes as his vision blurred._ _ _

___“You said you had some important info for me?” Kettering prompted, and Hermann started as she tugged him back to the matter at hand._ _ _

___“Yes. My apologies.”_ _ _

___“Mm. Weird day for you too?”_ _ _

___“One could reasonably call it that.” Hermann could not help but smile at the warm, good humor in her tone. He truly wondered how he could ever have seen her as an adversary. “I rang you, Doctor, because I have conclusive proof of two factors that have either upended my predicative model or that are in need of repair in addition to it.”_ _ _

___“Oh.” He had not enabled visual chat, but Hermann could nonetheless imagine Kettering sitting up at her desk—perhaps an island in a respectable kitchen, or even from exhausted near-repose on a sofa—and running a hand through her rows of dark-brown braids. “Dr. Gottlieb, that’s—now, I won’t say good, but… you have to admit, that is pretty good.”_ _ _

___“Good is a wonderful word for it, Dr. Kettering. A spectacular word.” Hermann proceeded to tell her everything he had told Hansen, Tendo, and Tendo’s staff only a handful of hours ago, though in terms far more technical and precise and less prone to the compass rose of metaphors laypeople required._ _ _

___“And…you seriously don’t have a single tech over there to help you through this,” she said when she was finished._ _ _

___Hermann ran a hand through his hair, noting with disinterest that it felt far dirtier than he had assumed. “Alas, no. Nor the money to hire one, even were I able to do so.”_ _ _

___“Mhh.” Kettering’s tone was the epitome of human kindness. “Dr. Gottlieb, if I could, I’d put three of my own people on the first flight to Hong Kong tomorrow morning. But with our donations drying up now that everyone’s gone wild for this wall business, I’m fighting to keep our heads above water as it is. Hell, we’ve laid off twenty percent of our staff since this time last year, and I barely managed to stop the board from going after another twenty people today—that was crisis number one I told you about earlier.”_ _ _

___Hermann’s stomach twisted as if it were an oroborous. “I am so very sorry, Doctor. Please, rest assured, I am hardly a proponent of my father’s misguided—”_ _ _

___“Oh, I know you’re not,” Kettering said gently. “Sorry I even brought it up. And it’s not your father I’m worried about, not really. Lawrence Taylor and his Pacifica Party buddies were trying to wall off everything around here long before your dad and Source Engineering came into the picture.” She huffed a sigh. “California politics, Doctor. They’d make a saint turn ax-murderer. That was crisis number two today.”_ _ _

___“You have my sympathies,” Hermann reassured her. Another yawn nearly overcame him._ _ _

___“But, look.” He heard a soft sound on the other end, like that of a hand shifting through paper. “One thing I can do for you is send you all the data we’ve been getting from the Breach since…2023, you think?”_ _ _

___Hermann nodded, then realized, of course, that Kettering could not see him. “Yes. Thank you. Now that I am closer, I hope, to finding the problem, that will be a tremendous help. If you wouldn’t mind…would you also be open to sharing our data?” When he heard her suck in a slow breath, he hurried on: “Please, Dr. Kettering. It is as I have promised—my only interest lies in destroying the Kaiju and the Breach, if at all possible. If your model is superior, if your model is the difference between our salvation and our ruin, I will never let the world think otherwise.”_ _ _

___Another slow breath whispered down the line. For a tense moment, Hermann thought she would refuse. Asking for one’s data on a natural phenomenon was one thing; the lifeblood of one’s research, quite another._ _ _

___“There’ll be hell to pay if you go back on that promise, Doctor,” Kettering said, her voice sharp as an arrowhead. “And I don’t just mean if you walk away with a Nobel Prize and a smile. It’s my ass hanging out there in the breeze. ”_ _ _

___“Yes, Doctor. I understand. As a show of good faith, I will send my research first—just as soon as I have untangled my source code, I mean.”_ _ _

___“Okay.” Kettering’s voice wavered, as if she were suppressing a yawn herself. “Yeah, but…let’s work out the details at a more reasonable hour for us both? If one even exists with the time difference.”_ _ _

___Hermann could not help but chuckle at that. “I keep late hours, so chances are you will not wake me if”—the yawn broke at last before he could stop it. “Oh. Do excuse me.”_ _ _

___“Sounds like you need about as much sleep as I do,” Kettering said with a chuckle of her own. “Okay, Dr. Gottlieb. We’ll be in touch.”_ _ _

___“Sleep well…when you do.”_ _ _

___Kettering snorted and ended the call on an admonishment to do the same._ _ _

___As Hermann replaced his earpiece in the desk drawer he heard the Sanctuary’s curtain _shink_ across the bar on its metal rings .“Morning, Hermann!” Newton said as he stretched his way into the room, his mouth turning into a wide O on the second vowel. “Is it morning? Noon?”_ _ _

___“Afternoon; well after 1400,” Hermann said brusquely as he turned back to his screen. Shaking his head at the mess on it, he slapped the Enter key._ _ _

___“Uh-oh.” Newton yawned again before joining him at the monitor. “Someone’s gonna die?”_ _ _

___“Believe me, Newton, if I still had techs, my commitment to nonviolence in all things would be sorely tried by now. Look at this.” He pushed back from the table and gestured with both arms at the monitor, as if the code on it mortally offended him—and really, it did._ _ _

___Pushing his glasses up his nose, Newton leaned in and stared at the monitor for a few moments._ _ _

___“Wow. The fuck?”_ _ _

___“Exactly my estimation,” Hermann fumed._ _ _

___“Holy shit, who the hell doesn’t indent?” Newton leaned in closer, sounding utterly offended now himself. “It’s, like, one giant paragraph, except it’s a paragraph with a zillion characters—”_ _ _

___“Oh, please don’t remind me,” Hermann moaned as he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. They briefly stung behind his eyelids before he opened them to find Newton studying the screen again._ _ _

___“I bet this was one of the Caltech shitheads,” Newton muttered. “Note the lack of comments? Or coherent comments? Totally them. God damn, baby, I’m sorry.”_ _ _

___Hermann was far too tired to tell him to stop blaspheming._ _ _

___“Hey, Hermann?”_ _ _

___“Hm?” Once again, Hermann felt as though he had missed something important, as if he had just passed through a tesseract to a future point in whatever Newton had been saying._ _ _

____So very tired…I cannot remember when I last slept. >_ _ _ _

____Newton’s fingers touched his shoulder. “Look, I’m…okay, so coding’s not my thing, but can I at least help you poke through this? Like…let me read the notes you gave those assholes. Two geniuses are better than one when it comes to cleaning house, right?”_ _ _ _

____Hermann shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, Newton, but I can hardly take you away from your own work.”_ _ _ _

____“Oh, screw my own work!” Newton exploded up from his hunched position and turned to face him, his expression, for once, serious. “Getting your moorings back online and seeing if that fixes your model is more important right now.”_ _ _ _

____“What?”_ _ _ _

____“I mean, I totally want more Kaiju parts from the government, but not if it means another one comes out of the Breach before we’re prepared.”_ _ _ _

____“No....” A small smile played on Hermann’s lips, despite the direness of the situation. “Repeat what you just said a moment ago, if you please.”_ _ _ _

____“Uh. Getting your moorings back online is important because it could mean your model wasn’t broken to begin with?”_ _ _ _

____“No.” Hermann shook his head. “Before that.”_ _ _ _

____“Uh…oh no.” Newton pointed a finger at him. “No, no, no. Heat of the moment, dude! I did not mean to say ‘screw my work’—”_ _ _ _

____“Aha!” Hermann pointed a finger right back._ _ _ _

____“Facetiously, man! I just meant that fixing sensitive equipment was—”_ _ _ _

____Hermann just smirked at him._ _ _ _

____Newton sighed and tapped the toe of his boot against the floor. “Yeah, yeah. Jeez, are you gonna gloat all day or actually do some data droning? Uh…Hermann?”_ _ _ _

____“Hm?” Another tesseract. This one complete with vertigo. Hermann was thankful for his chair._ _ _ _

____Chair…_ _ _ _

____“Dude.” Newton flitted his hand in front of Hermann’s gaze, and oh, but his eyes were green and very soft. Hermann had the urge to fall into them, even though it made not a jot of sense. “Nine out of ten scientists agree that there’s two things you should never do when you’re pretty much falling over from sleep dep: debug code and indent code. Also? Doing both at once? Maybe that sounds punk, my man, but it’s definitely square. Second also: you’re the tenth scientist, which means we all know you’re wrong.”_ _ _ _

____“I’m fine,” Hermann insisted, even as his vision darkened briefly. He snapped his eyelids open just in time to catch himself from pitching toward the floor._ _ _ _

____“Fuck’s sake,” Newton hissed. And suddenly, warm arms were around his waist, guiding him up, supported, held._ _ _ _

____“Ohh,” Hermann sighed, turning his face against that mess of gel and hair. He inhaled all the way to his liver._ _ _ _

____Coffee. Kaiju. Money. Musk. Sex. Calloused fingers._ _ _ _

____No…no, that wasn’t right._ _ _ _

____“Hermann,” Newton’s voice vibrated against his chest, yet there was something distant about it, as if Hermann were hearing it down a silent wind tunnel. “Okay, bro. Last call is officially over. Your turn on the sofa.”_ _ _ _

____“Don’t be absurd, Newton. I’m...merely need….”_ _ _ _

____“Gonna fall asleep on the floor and whine at me for leaving you there like Kaiju guts when you wake up,” Newton insisted. Hermann moved his head from his partner’s hair—no, partner wasn’t the right word, but he could not think of the proper one—and moved with him as he was tugged forward, bumped against the edge of a stair (“Sorry!”), and finally eased into softness onto his back._ _ _ _

____“Listen.” Newton’s voice. The soft tickle of yarn against his chin. “It’s gonna take me, like, a while to get through your notes to your dipshit techs. I’ll kick you out of bed if I have any problems, okay?”_ _ _ _

____At least that was what Hermann thought he’d said. The strings of commands and numbers and brackets behind his eyelids had wrapped through him like water. Were pulling him down, down, down, into blue and amber and two very, very green eyes, and the caress of large hands blooming fire across his brain._ _ _ _


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All coding and no sleep makes Hermann a tired boy. Hannibal's got a remedy for that. And it seems that not everyone among his employees disapproves of the boss' new toyboy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness. I really do try to update ever week, but health issues and work (which becomes overwhelming when I have health issues) interfered. But! This chapter is super long, so hopefully it was worth the wait! <3

(Friday.)

The week passed in a blur of sound and far too much fury—a tired cliché, Hermann had to admit, but the most apt one he could think of by the time Friday evening arrived. Franklin’s repairs had been easy to do accomplish, Gauss’ somewhat more challenging, but Lovelace and Turing had been functioning—thank all the saints!—just as well as they had the day he and his team had brought them online. Recalibrating the two errant moorings by himself with occasional assistance from Newton, on the other hand, had been a task he could only describe as exhausting. 

And then there was the matter of the source code. By Friday afternoon, Hermann had logged no less than two dozen errors in it, and feared that his sore and increasingly reddened eyes had missed many more. When Newton had caught the twenty-fifth error quite by accident, he was certain of it. Though he sometimes wondered why the code had malfunctioned so dramatically, Hermann found he could just not summon up much care for academic curiosity when faced with a mountain of unindented commands and comments that seemed to have been written by drunken kindergartners. What on earth were “this runs it” or “ask Gottlieb said so” supposed to mean?

Then, of course, a phone call from Mr. Chau on Wednesday, the tone of which he did not care for at all.

“You’re getting an escort, kid.”

Hermann moved the mobile phone away from his head and glared at it for a full four seconds before remembering that it had no video capabilities. “No,” he said upon returning it to his ear.

“Don’t argue with me, Mouthy. I am not in the mood.” There seemed to be ambient noise from wherever Chau was speaking; not enough, perhaps, for a busy Kowloon street, but…

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Huh? My lair, gorgeous. You think, even with body guards, I take calls when I’m out on the town?”

“Why wouldn’t I think that?”

Chau huffed out a long-suffering sigh. “Kid, you’re a genius, but you got the street smarts of a fruit fly. This concerns me. ”

Hermann felt his eyes narrow again. “I’m not afraid of anything or anyone on Kowloon’s streets, Mr. Chau.”

“Yeah, well, those are famous last words, son, for people with a hundred pounds on you and three times your strength. Look, all I’m saying is a guy like you draws attention, and you’ve been calling on me a lot lately—and yep, three times now at a regular time is a lot when you’ve got as many eyes on my place as there are. People talk, and when people talk here, bad things happen. Her name’s Yayoi Shinohara. About five-four with a pixie cut that’s got hot-pink tips. Likes to wear black. She’ll be waiting for you at the end of Wei Plaza—about three blocks down from the ferry. I want her to get closer, but that’s as close as anyone can get a car without turning a few dozen pedestrians into road kill, and she says you’re pretty safe in that area—no one likes to do shady shit on the strip named after HK’s heroes, even people that are blacker hats than me. Now you do what I’m telling you and go with her.”

“No, I will not,” Hermann said resolutely.

“Oh yes you will. I’m your host and what I say goes. And she better not tell me you gave her any of that lip of yours.”

And Chau rang off before Hermann could object further. Glaring at the mobile, Hermann had considered phoning back to give the impossible man what for, but, really, even pressing the keys suddenly felt like a herculean labor. Sighing, he rubbed his thumbs across his forehead and around the ridges of both eyebrows. Thousands upon thousands of lines of code swam behind his eyelids, and he suddenly felt tired. Just so very tired.

The ferry ride two days later had never felt longer.

***

With her small stature, elfin features, dark eyes, and soft black trousers and shirt, Yayoi Shinohara could not have been more than twenty-five, and could have easily blended into the crowds that bumped past her, even with her pink-and-black spiky hair.

This woman could not be a body guard, Hermann thought. Surely not.

“Dr. Gottlieb?” she nonetheless asked in Cantonese.

Hermann nodded and answered likewise: “Ms. Shinohara, I presume?”

She flashed him a grin and a wink as she opened the passenger-side door. “Boss told me you’d say you could get a cab on your own, and I should explain why that’s a bad idea.”

“Indeed?” Hermann quirked an eyebrow.

“Yep. Turns out, though, I don’t need to use hypotheticals—you’re already being followed.”

Hermann pivoted awkwardly and staggered as his cane skittered out from under him. Shinohara gripped him by the shoulder, her other hand in the small of his back as she righted him, murmuring, “Easy, easy!” Hermann frowned and scanned the crowds; no one seemed to be pursuing, or even looking at him strangely—then again, given his rather haphazard luck with the human face, he supposed he could be mistaken.

“I don’t see anyone following me,” he said anyway.

“Yeah, not _now_ ,” Yayoi scoffed. “They knew I saw them and ducked off down a side street off the plaza. Fucking amateurs, if you ask me. The people following you, Hermann? A tank and a bigger tank. Pretty obvious too, which probably means their boss is new at this—basically, sending out a steamroller to crush an ant. But it’s still a steamroller, and it still wants to crush you. And you’re still an ant. You see?”

Her hands slid away from him as Hermann turned slowly back to her, wincing as his ankle popped. Happily, that little slip had not damaged anything—thanks likely to his keeper’s quick reflexes—but his tense muscles were less than pleased about it, nonetheless.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said.

Shinohara was shaking her head, tsking long before he finished. “So you don’t see what you just did there, either, Hermann?”

“Dr. Gottlieb, if you please,” Hermann replied with more bluster than he intended.

She shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “You looked around for the tail—worse than a rookie move. You’re practically screaming, ‘I’m alone and scared of you! Please, hurt me!’”

“I am not afraid of criminals, Ms. Shinohara.”

She nodded as if she had been expecting that answer. “Yep, Ming told me all about the standoff you had with the boss. She also said you’re too ballsy for your own good. And that works fine with the boss and his people—he likes pretty things like you, especially when they sass him and challenge him. But you’re not so cute to anyone else in this shithole. You got me?”

“Yes,” Hermann said, though a part of his brain had stuck in the word “pretty” like a fly in candy floss. It was a word no one had ever used in a sentence concerning him—“cute,” on the other hand…

_”You’re so cute, Hermann,”_ Newton had said at one of Tendo’s abominable video game parties, which Hermann had only attended to help boost the ever-tenuous morale of the K-Science team and LOCCENT’s officers, and to please Newton and Tendo. _”C’mon…move over on that sofa and let’s waste this asshole! I’m Princess Peach and you’re the bone turtle-thing. Mh, yeah. Cuz you’re cute but skinny. Tickle, tickle, tickle.”_

Clearly, he had been drinking too much.

“Where’d you go?”

“I’m sorry?” Hermann blinked, remembering where he was.

Yayoi was frowning at him. “That’s another thing. If I or those two Titans back there wanted to kill you, you’d be rat bait now, staring off into space like that.”

Hermann’s cheeks heated. “Ms. Shinohara, while I appreciate and defer to your expertise in combat, I am hardly in need of an attendant or a fight instructor.”

“Well, Hermann—”

“Dr. Gottlieb, if you please!”

Again that shrug. “You’re getting one if you want Hannibal to keep fucking that tight little ass of yours.”

“Ms. Shinohara!” Hermann squeaked.

“Yayoi,” she said, motioning to the open door as a fat glob of rain hit Hermann on the nose. “Now stop being a boob and get in.”

“Yes, well… I suppose it is preferable to trying to hail a taxi in this foul weather,” Hermann said as he eased himself into the car and gripped the seat belt. When he was securely inside, Yayoi shut the door and walked around the front to the driver’s seat.

“Ms.—Yayoi,” he said as she turned the key in the ignition, feeling terribly rude despite her request that he drop her surname, “I may not look it, and I certainly am not at all saying I could best you or any of Mr. Chau’s employees in a fight, but I am not incapable of defending myself physically.”

“Oh, I bet you aren’t.” Yayoi slammed on the horn and shot the cyclists in front of them an irritated look, complete with an obscene hand gesture before she returned to the business of steering the car onto the street. “But orders are orders—no guard, no dick for you.”

For the first time, Hermann wondered how many of Chau’s…”people,” as it were, knew about their arrangement. The possibility Yayoi had introduced, that it could be a set greater than the sole number of Ming No-Surname and the man himself, both unnerved and excited him. It was a strange feeling.

He did not care for mixed feelings.

“You are far more intelligent than to take both vague and nonsensical orders without question, Ms. Shi—Yayoi. And so am I.”

Yayoi chuckled as she turned a corner. “There’s those brass balls again,” she said. “Does anything at all scare you?”

“Very little.” This was one lie Hermann had no compunctions about telling.

“Well, the bone slums should.” Yayoi slammed on the brakes as an old woman wandered into the car’s path. The two then engaged in a rapid-fire screaming match about who had the right of way. Hermann curled his toes in discomfort and stared ahead, trying to resist the temptation to tell the woman to watch where she was going in very clipped tones.

_Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner…._

Finally, the older woman sauntered off, muttering profanities directed toward Yayoi’s appearance, sex, nationality, and lack of respect that Hermann had no wish to hear, and Yayoi released the brake. “They should,” she continued as if the conversation had never been interrupted, pressing the gas pedal, “because a lot of people might want to hurt you to take a swipe at Hannibal.”

“But that’s ridiculous. I am not one of his…staff.”

“But you’re one of his associates now.” Again that jaunty shrug. “Word travels fast in the bone slums, and it’s not as if you’re exactly inconspicuous—white, walks with a cane, dresses like a character from a movie about Victorian English professors—no offense.”

Despite his annoyance, Hermann could not resist a chuckle. “Quite all right. All of this is true.”

Yayoi smiled. “He wants you to be safe. You mean a lot to him.”

Hermann’s pulse jumped in his throat. “Yes, well, I suppose he would be rather disappointed to go back to…purchasing sexual favors.”

“Whatever you say, Hermann.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

Surely, Hermann thought, he must have misunderstood her. Perhaps his Cantonese needed brushing up as well as his Russian—he was more in the habit of using English of late, after all.

“Tell me.”

“Sorry?”

“You said you defended yourself before against someone.” Yayoi shot him a smile before returning her attention to the road.

Hermann folded his arms across his chest and refused to mask the annoyance in his voice. “You think I am lying.”

“No, I think there are millions of martial artists with bodies like yours, and I _know_ I’ve trained at exactly thirty-two of them. Three of who used wheelchairs. Ten of who got that way because of Kaiju—sorry, didn’t mean to be blunt. But I remember you from TV when they did that special report in ’14.”

Hermann clenched his jaw as he waited for her to say more. People usually did when they knew. When she didn’t, he said, “A young ranger with something to prove to someone, though even he couldn’t say what or to whom, cornered my colleague in our shared workspace some months ago. I hit him with a rolling chair and then tripped him with my cane as he overbalanced. He is now…a mentee of mine, I suppose one could say. And of course, a man with arms covered in the images of Kaiju does tend to attract the wrong sort of attention. No, not on me,” he said when Yayoi gave him a quizzical look. “The same colleague. Though after I broke my favorite cane against the back of his would-be murderers in a pub at which he insisted we dine, he has learned to cover his ‘ink’ in long sleeves or a jacket whenever we are outside a Shatterdome.”

Yayoi nodded thoughtfully. “Impressive.”

“Oh, rudimentary physics, I daresay…though I suppose the sheer fury of adrenaline had something to do with the bar fight I started,” Hermann admitted.

“Sounds like he’s pretty special to you,” Yayoi said sagely before laying into the horn yet again.

“Yes, well.” Hermann fought to keep his cheeks from heating. “He is my colleague, and…something of a friend. And his heart is bigger than his mouth, anyway.”

“Mhm.” Yayoi sucked on her lower lip for a moment—Hermann wondered if it was a nervous habit. “So, listen, Hermann. You’ve got some potential, and I like teaching people with potential. And if we had some time to be in my dojo regularly, I would. You need an escort, sure, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t do pretty well on your own, in time.”

“Yayoi, I don’t wish to be impertinent but…you have seen my body, yes?”

She spared him a glance and a grin before turning back to the road. “Hm. Nerve and tissue damage, injured leg, low muscle mass, and lack of coordination? Maybe even sensory defensiveness? You shouldn’t be surprised, Hermann,” she laughed when his eyebrows raised. “Like I said, I’ve trained lots of people, and after twenty-five years of doing this, you learn a lot about bodies.”

Well, Hermann supposed he had been wrong about many people’s ages before. “I see. Yes, I suppose that makes sense,” he said, feeling rather put out by the entire conversation. Could this not be approached after he had slept for at least a full six hours out of twenty-four?

Mercifully, Yayoi then pulled up beside Chau’s lair and stopped the car.

“So.” She shot Hermann a grin. “You still want to tell the boss where he can shove my help? Or should we just humor the old bastard?”

Hermann couldn’t help but laugh, loud, full-throated, despite his fatigue. “Well,” he said when he had sufficiently recovered, “I suppose when you put it that way….”

“Thanks,” Yayoi said as she whipped off her seat belt. Her hand rested briefly against his shoulder. “If it helps at all, I wish I could make you student number thirty-three.”

“You flatter me, madam,” Hermann said as he removed his own seat belt and turned to open his door—

Only to find a young white man beaming down at him.

“Dr. Gottlieb?” He offered a hand up as Hermann planted his cane on the street.

“No thank you. I believe I can manage—the ground is not yet too slippery, Mr….?”

“Oh, Johnny. Johnny Switchblade.”

Hermann raised an eyebrow.

“Johnny Svensen,” Yayoi trilled as she tossed the boy the car keys.

Johnny Switchblade—nee Svensen—caught them. “Damn it, Yayoi! Way to blow my big entrance,” he said in English.

“It’s a stupid name, Johnny,” Yayoi said back in the same language. Her accent, Hermann noted, was heavy. Tokyo, certainly, but he could not tell which prefecture.

“I…don’t believe I’ve yet had the pleasure,” Hermann said, offering his hand to— _Oh bother it, “Johnny” means less grief for us all._

The young man pumped it enthusiastically. “No, we haven’t met yet.” His accent was American, yet it drawled far more than Newton’s or even Hannibal’s. Hermann was unfamiliar with Newton’s adopted nation beyond coastal California, but something about the way this Johnny spoke made him think of sunlight and open fields.

_Iowa? Ohio? Confound it, I’ve forgotten which is which again._

“I’m one of Mr. Chau’s—well, I guess you could call me a jack-of-all-trades, though usually I help coordinate the troops when a Kaiju makes landfall—or seafall, if the Jaegers get it first. We have amphibious units in Seoul, and Russia, and—practically everywhere.”

He smiled as if he were seeking Hermann’s approval; Hermann could not fathom why.

“Just ignore Johnny,” Yayoi said in Cantonese as she came around the car to collect him. “He nearly wets himself whenever he sees a white person that doesn’t want to kill him.”

“I do speak Cantonese, you know,” Johnny pouted.

“Mormon mission to Hong Kong just before Reckoner,” Yayoi provided in a stage whisper, as she led Hermann away from the car. “Kaiju smashed up his mission and killed his companion. He thought smashing them up in return was better than going back to Idaho. I’m still not sure if he’s ever figured out that we’re actually gangsters.”

“Yayoi,” the young man growled.

Ignoring him, she nodded to the two toughs who always seemed to be stationed on the veranda. “Bruce,” she said, gesturing at the younger man wearing a black suit, sunglasses, and a matching fedora—or perhaps it was a porkpie? To Hermann, a hat was a hat. “And Changpu.” The older man this time, who had Chau’s build but not his height, and his beard, but not its shortness nor its white-gold color. “Mr. Chau’s muscle.”

“Gentlemen,” Hermann said with a polite bow. Their gazes remained stony.

Yayoi made a tsking sound and shook her head at them. “They’re just shy. They’ll be nicer once they get to know you better.” Her tone was playful, but whether or not Messrs. Bruce and Changup No-Surname appreciated it was anyone’s guess.

“Yayoi, are you done playing with him yet?” Ming asked from the doorway.

“Hi, honey.” Yayoi turned from the trio of men and flashed Ming a smile that made Hermann blush. “Relax. We’re a few minutes early. I thought he should meet some more of the gang.”

Until now, Hermann had trouble imagining any expression on Ming’s face but dour or coldly murderous. He was reminded of the folly of accepting first impressions unquestioned when Ming shook her head and walked down the steps, a smile lighting up her plum-painted lips all the while. When she reached the other woman, she slipped an arm around her waist and squeezed her against her hip. The two shared a look that seemed to hold a number of emotions—affection, questioning, fond annoyance…. Hermann knew it well; he had seen it on Newton’s face any number of times, and he could read his colleague’s expressions as easily as he could any equation. It was simply the form of nonverbal communication that two close friends or lovers or…people who had associated long enough shared—a twin language of body and energy incomprehensible to the outside observer, or at least indecipherable.

_Just as Newton told me to put down my chalk and hear him out about his new Kaiju specimens without saying so much as a word._

_Newton has no place here_ , he reminded himself as Ming turned to him, her demeanor cold as mountain air yet again.

“Come with me,” she said in English, and started up the stairs at a clip. Before he could follow, Yayoi stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.

“Don’t worry about my wife,” she whispered. “She’s just protective of Hannibal. It’s like having a bear for a big brother who sometimes shits—”

“ _Gottlieb._ ” Ming shot him a nasty look from the top of the short staircase. 

“Yes, sorry.” Hermann nodded at Yayoi to let her know he understood.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said to the three employees. But only Yayoi nodded as he turned to essay the first step. Thankfully, everything after this hurdle was a smooth floor that only sloped when necessary.

He wondered idly if Chau had included an attempt at universal design when having his lair constructed.

Really, he thought as he followed Ming past the creepy employee at the counter—who took the opportunity to grin rather lopsidedly at him and purr, “Feisty boy,” in his untraceable accent—Chau had as many twists and turns and secret places as the architecture he inhabited.

***

The mind was a funny thing—equal parts meat and illusion. The distance between two points remained the same unless, of course, one moved each point, and yet, as Hermann followed Ms. Ming of No Surname through Chau’s labyrinth, the way somehow felt…shorter. At least, the red door arrived long before Hermann expected it to.

“Come on in, Gottlieb,” the man greeted as Ming returned the way she had come without so much as a good day (not that Hermann had expected one, of course). This time, however, as Hermann pushed open the door, Chau was waiting in front of it, looking quite stunning in a suit the color of overripe cherries and a vest and shirt as dark as old heart’s blood. His golden tie had an acidic patina that made it a sort of tarnished green.

Realizing he had stared far longer than was proper, Hermann averted his gaze. “Good evening, Mr. Chau.”

“Evening, kid.” Chau closed the distance between them and lifted Hermann’s hand to his lips. The kiss was genteel, even aristocratic, and yet it made Hermann’s skin tingle as if he had just bathed in peppermint oil. “You doing all right?”

“Yes. I am well, thank you. And yourself?”

But Chau was frowning.

“You don’t look all right.” He moved his hand to Hermann’s cheek and leaned in to Hermann’s face. The low light from the chandelier filtered through the only open space around his mountaineer glasses, revealing the curve of both orbits; he could not determine the color of the eyes within, but noted that Chau’s lenses were, unsurprisingly, subtly tinted with red.

“You look tired,” he pronounced. “And I don’t mean tired like you could just use a catnap—tired like you ain’t seen the right side of sleep since2012 or so.”

“An astoundingly accurate summation of my habits.”

He had tried to speak with humor, but the attempt had apparently failed. Frowning, Chau cupped Hermann’s chin and tilted his head upward. Hermann stared at him as he moved it left and right, as if searching for the cause of fatigue in both eyes.

“The hell they doing to you up there, son?” he said at last.

“I’m sorry,” Hermann said apologetically.

“You’re sorry for being tired.” Not a question—an incredulous statement. The hand remained where it rested, large, warm, rough.

Hermann leaned into it. “I am aware that I look dreadful—”

Chau shook his head and pressed a thick index finger to Hermann’s lips. “How about I get to make the call about that, sweet thing?” he said as he dragged it over the pout and down around Hermann’s neck. “When’d you last eat? Naw, don’t answer. I don’t think I’ll like what you have got to say.” The hand glided onto the small of his back and steered him to his chair, which Chau then pushed in for him.

The shiver that passed down Hermann’s back only intensified as the taller man ran his fingers through his hair before walking around the table and taking his usual place at the opposite end. As Chau moved, Hermann shamefully appreciated the view of his host’s back, thighs, and, in particular, rear. Firm and full beneath his garish trousers, something he would very much like to squeeze.

_Callipygian._

It was a nice word. A very nice word, indeed. Hermann shifted in his chair to accommodate his appreciation of it.

“I completed your assignment,” he said as Chau took his seat. “I know you said it was unnecessary, but, after our conversation, I felt…calm. Inspired, I suppose.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” Hermann nodded as he shifted his weight again, jostling the chair a few inches closer to the table. “I watched a number of videos and compiled a list of everything I found appealing.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket, but stopped as Chau raised his hand.

“And I’d love to read it, kid…but pleasure before business, okay? Pleasure before business before pleasure, I mean.”

“Very well.” Hermann left the paper in place and turned his attention to the repast before him, feeling his mouth pull into a smile as he looked at it for the first time.

Tonight Chau had set out—oh, of all things!—dim sum. Hermann tried to be delicate and mannerly, he truly did, but the tiny red-and-gold dishes boasted such savory dumplings, bean curd rolls, stuffed crab claws, and pickles that they made refinement difficult. As he reached for his second custard, he realize that he could not recall when he had last eaten a full and nourishing meal.

Chau watched him with what Hermann hoped was indulgence, though, of course, he never could be quite sure. He himself ate heartily of the repast, and without, Hermann noticed, much concern for elegance. It was, he supposed, very American. Very much the wat Newton ate, only without the energetic fluttering of fingers, the constant patter.

_Newton has no place here_ , he reminded himself. _Stop giving him one._

“So, pretty,” Chau said as he poured himself another glass of red wine. “What are they doing to you to make you look fit to keel over?”

“I assure you, Mr. Chau, ‘they’ are hardly overworking me,” Hermann said after vigorously finishing with a forkful of kimchi.

“You telling me you’re pulling late hours for your goddamn health or something?” His forehead wrinkled in apparent disbelief.

Hermann sighed. He had lost track of how many times he had explained the ever-evolving situation with the moorings and the source code over the past week, to both marshals, to Kettering and her assistants, to Tendo and LOCCENT’s officers who needed to assist in the equipment’s recalibration and monitoring, to Newton who, beautiful genius and godsend though he was, still needed a little handholding as he “data-droned” his way through what should have been the Notre Dame de Paris of code.

Handholding. Newton had done some of that quite literally as well, not only massaging Hermann’s wrists and hands when they grew sore or too tremulous to continue, but sometimes twisting their fingers together as they scrolled through line after line of unformatted code and incomprehensible comments.

“So beautiful,” he said once. And when Hermann had looked up, feeling the tips of his ears redden, he had gestured to the screen. “Uh…. I meant. It’s gorgeous, Hermann. Just, like, do what you tell me to do and relax, okay? You’re kinda digging the Panama Canal down my heartline. Kinda sexy too. Uh. The—numbers and…”

“Really, Newton,” he had grumbled as his colleague gestured at his screen, “now you’re just being silly.”

Still, that dear, silly man had probably saved him from breaking down in uncontrollable sobbing on more than one occasion this week.

“Gottlieb?” 

Hermann jerked upright in his chair. “My apologies, Mr. Chau. I think I lost the plot.”

“Stop that,” Chau said charitably. “It ain’t your fault those UN asswipes are making you work yourself to the bone. Just wanted to know what you were doing it for—if it doesn’t involve too many squiggles and graphs, I mean.”

Suppressing a tired sigh, Hermann related the week’s events as clearly as he could for yet another lay audience. Happily, Chau stopped him with a raised hand halfway through.

“So, let me get this straight. You’re doing the work—literally doing the work—that twenty odd techs used to handle?”

“My colleague Dr. Geiszler and I, yes.”

“Oh. Right. Geiszler,” Chau said with a frown. “On top of everything else you two gotta do, you’re basically fixing who knows how many lines of code? That’s fucked-up, son.”

Hermann raised a hand. “Please, Mr. Chau—no fury about the injustice of our situation. Anger on anyone’s part will not fix the PPDC’s budgetary problems that led to our shortage of personnel and necessitated this untenable situation. It is terribly frustrating, yes, but we must strive on as best we can.”

“Hnh,” Chau grumbled. “Bet if I punched a few of those Pacific Task Force UN types in the balls, they’d change their tune.”

“I am not in the habit of dignifying talk of unnecessary violence with a response,” Hermann informed him as he reached for a shrimp ball.

Still, God help him, he would have to confess the venial sin of sympathizing with Chau’s proposition.

“Hnh,” the man said again. And thus was the matter dropped for the rest of the meal, which they ate in the same companionable silence as they had a week ago.

After a small dish of red-bean ice cream—a stranger to dim sum, but too exquisite to reject—Chau rose, came around to Hermann’s end of the table, and offered him an arm, and Hermann took it. Once again, he left his cane behind, allowing Chau to lead him further into the room. This time, however, the man did not take him to the plush sofa; rather, he stopped Hermann a few feet away from it and stepped in front of him.

“Good dinner?” he asked as he trailed his knuckles down Hermann’s jaw.

Hermann did not bother to hide his shiver. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Good. Good.” Chau leaned in and captured Hermann’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugged him into a long, heady kiss. Hermann felt his member stir as the golden ridges along the man’s incisors and cuspids pinched and tugged. He tried and failed not to moan as a large hand traveled the curve of his back before stopping just at the cusp between hip and buttock.

“Okay, Gottlieb,” Chau said as he broke off the kiss. “No more foreplay. Jacket off, sweater and shirt too. And anything else you’ve got on under there.” Chau flicked two fingers at Hermann’s chest carelessly, as if he were pointing out items on a menu to a waiter who did not speak his language.

Even as a flower of heat unfurled near his collarbone, Hermann’s hands moved onto his chest protectively. “But….”

Chau held up a large hand. “Yeah, I know. Last week I only asked for the jacket and a few buttons. Well, funny thing about sex and bacon, kid: a taste usually ain’t enough for most people. And you know all about my appetites by now.”

“I know all about frogs in boiling pots,” Hermann huffed, too scandalized to care much about the cliché.

“And I know a mouthy little thing that won’t get his Kaiju cold cuts unless he gives me a show,” Chau retorted. “Or maybe you wanna end our little sessions early? God knows you whined enough about me trying to get that sexy little behind of yours here in one piece. You are a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“And you are a far larger one!” Hermann snapped. The blush slapped across his face the second the last word left his mouth, and he covered the offending aperture in alarm.

Chau’s mouth twitched as a laugh rumbled in his chest.

Hermann swallowed as the heat radiated through his fingers. “I-I apologize, Mr. Chau. That was both unseemly and inappropriate.”

The laugh shook from Chau’s mouth as the man covered the left side of his face with his hand and shook his head. “Nah, I like that mouth of yours, kid, especially when it gets away from you and tells me the truth.” He cocked his head as if considering something. “It the scars?” he asked, his tone surprising Hermann with its gentleness. “Cuz I already told you, Mouthy, they ain’t gonna faze me.”

Hermann shook his head, surprised as well by how little the question angered him. “No, I am not at all ashamed of them or shy about them. Indeed, Mr. Chau, the number of medical professionals and students who have seen them and treated them at various stages in their formation would, I suspect, rival your own number of salaried employees.”

“Hmm.” Chau tapped two fingers against his lips. “Yeah, call me clueless, but I’m thinking that’s the problem here. So, this week, you did some looking at bodies, huh?”

“Yes. On Saturday. I had precious little time to study the matter further due to th—”

“Doesn’t matter. Point is, you looked at them. Why?”

“Why, for the purpose of sexual arousal and—and exploration, as you requested.”

Hannibal nodded. “So those doctors and their graduate students and premed dabblers—you think they were looking at you to get their jollies?”

Hermann felt his eyes increase to the size of eggs. “Certainly not!” he choked. “How—how could you possibly insinuate that the people who treated me would have d—”

“Relax, Padre Pio. I ain’t insinuating shit. And that’s the point. Of course they weren’t looking at you that way—or if they were, they were nice enough to keep that little fantasy to themselves. But I want to.” He brushed Hermann’s chest with the back of his hand. “And I can’t do that with all those layers in the way. So, start with the jacket. That’s easy, right?”

Nodding, Hermann slowly shrugged out of his navy-blue sports coat.

“Good, good boy,” Hannibal said with a smile that made Hermann’s nipples twitch as he took the garment from him.

“Hardly a boy,” Hermann said demurely. “I will be forty in just a few years.”

“And I’ll be sixty before I know it.” Chau grinned, showing off what seemed to be enough gold to pay K-Science’s operating budget until All Hallows’ Eve of the following year. “You’re a kid to me, kid. About your age, I was still muscle for some drug-runner clown in Kowloon. Here. Can you stand for a sec? Gonna go get a chair to put your things on.” When Hermann nodded, Chau turned and fetched one of the chairs from the table. He moved across the room like a mountain might, graceful and formidable and strong. Hermann politely averted his gaze from the placket on Chau’s trousers as he placed the chair near him and draped the jacket across its back. “Okay. Now, you think you can stand up to do the rest if I spot you?”

“Yes.” Hermann moved his fingers to his collar and shakily undid the first button. “I can typically stand stationary unassisted, given an even surface. But you are very right to offer your support. My balance is not always trustworthy.”

“No problem.” Chau stepped close enough to touch and moved his hands onto Hermann’s hips. “Gives me a better view of what I’m getting. And I like looking at you. So, you said you made a dirty list for me?” he continued as Hermann untucked his sweater vest from his belt.

“Yes.”

“Mh. Good boy.” His voice was a purr of smoke and knife-edges. “Tell me what’s on it. I know you memorized it.”

Hermann nodded thoughtfully as he pulled the sweater above his head. Indeed, the paper had been a failsafe, though he remained unconvinced that he wouldn’t lose his nerve before he finished the recitation of it. “Bears.”

“Heh. No kiddin’.”

“Indeed. I do not have a ‘type’ per se, as my sexuality does not function upon the physical—or at least not very much. But I must say, the majority of pornographic material at which I looked after our conversation involved bears—the large, hairy, older men, mind you; not the animal.”

“Oh, so many things I could say to that,” Chau’s tone was jocular, though. “Yeah, I know what you meant.”

“Good. Because my interest seemed to range to several other euphemisms for individuals older than I—otters, cougars, silver foxes…you understand.” He discarded the sweater on the chair and looked away as he untucked his shirt.

“Eyes on the prize, Mouthy,” Chau said gently as he squeezed his hips. “I like looking at your face when you tell me dirty things like this—that prim little froggy mouth speaking all that sin.”

“Sexuality is not sin, Mr. Chau.”

“Don’t steal my thunder, kid.” Chau kneaded his hips again as if to reinforce his irritation. “That can’t be all there was.”

“No.” Hermann looked up again and slowly recounted the rest of the list as he unbuttoned, removed, and folded his shirt—omitting, of course, the parts that pertained to Newton. Chau had asked for the truth, yes, but an omission was not necessarily a lie. Particularly as there were some things that simply were not the other man’s business. Hermann had contracted his body to him, after all, but not his mind or his secrets.

“Good work,” Chau said, and Hermann realized that he truly meant it as a complement. He tugged at the hem of Hermann’s undershirt. “This comes off too. Or did you think I’d forgotten while you were telling me all those filthy things?”

“I doubt you forget much.” Hermann drew the thin fabric over his head with shaking fingers and discarded it on the chair with the rest of his clothes.

As the laboratory had toppled around him twelve years ago, the debris rained down upon Hermann’s exposed left arm, slicing and bludgeoning the flesh into centimeters of injury that over time had healed into whorls and serpentines of scar tissue. Having been pressed to the floor during the event by the bookshelf pinning him, Hermann’s chest had largely escaped injury, save for a gash across his left pectoral from hitting the corner of a desk on his way to the tiles. As he stood, half-naked and shivering despite the room’s heat, Chau studied him in silence; once again, Hermann felt as if he were completely exposed to that gaze—a feeling strengthened, no doubt, by the mountaineering glasses that hooded Chau’s eyes. Without a clear picture of them, Chau’s expression seemed neutral. Surely he had not hoped for a swimmer’s musculature, a body like that of an alabaster _kouros_?

Hermann covered himself with his arms and looked away as heat crept down onto his shoulders.

“Nope.” Chau grabbed Hermann’s forearms and pulled them—gently but firmly—away from his chest and down to his sides. “I wanna see what I’m paying for.” Hermann bit back a whimper as the large man pulled his arms behind his back, forcing Hermann’s shoulders back and his chest forward, forcing him to display himself.

“O-oh!”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Hermann said quickly, hoping Chau would not release him. “Not at all. You simply…you surprised me, Mr. Chau.” He shivered as one large hand wrapped around both of his wrists and pinned them against the back of his narrow hips.

“Good.” Chau trailed his fingers between Hermann’s pectorals. “God, you’re a hot little thing. I could get off just touching you like this all night.”

“Oh.” Hermann wasn’t sure what else one _said_ when confronted with this type of revelation. “And…is that what you intend to do this evening? I daresay, I don’t know how long I can stand unaided, even assisted.” He chanced what he hoped was a sly smile. “Even when your admiration is so very thrilling.”

“You like the attention, huh?”

“Oh, yes.” He attempted to make his smile slyer. Apparently, the attempt was a success, for Chau moaned and pulled him flush against his body, his free hand grabbing his chin and tilting his head up into a kiss. Hermann’s entire body shivered as the older man nipped his lower lip and tugged it into his mouth again. The shiver only intensified when he applied suction, warm and wet and surprising.

_I always imagined I would dislike the biology of kissing_ , Hermann thought weakly. _Messy. Muscular. Clearly, I was mistaken._

Still pinning Hermann’s wrists flush against his body, Chau moved his free hand across the planes and angles of his chest, each abrasion of his calloused fingers heightening the heat in Hermann’s skin, forcing it closer to blooming, to bursting. “Okay to touch your scars?” His voice was a whisper—tentative, respectful…unsure, Hermann thought with surprise. Since when did a man like Hannibal Chau hesitate?

“Yes. I do not mind.”

The fingertips that slid across them felt like sandstone.

“God, these are…does it bug you if I think they’re beautiful?”

Hermann considered for a moment, until Chau withdrew them and the pain of their loss forced his reply. “They are part of me, the same as the rest of my body. I suppose I find your interest…odd.”

“No, no.” Chau shook his head. “Sure, I’m a pretty unusual guy when it comes to what I think’s pretty, but that’s not what I mean. I like ’em because they’re part of you. Shows your body’s been lived in, been through life, grabbed it by the balls and kicked its ass. They’re sexy as hell because all of you’s pretty damn hot. And I want all of you.”

“Ohhh. Oh my,” Hermann said. He had expected a fetishist’s answer, maybe, having encountered fetishism of people with his disabilities in at least one search while completing his homework last weekend.

“Mhh, love it when you say that,” Chau whispered before nipping the right corner of his mouth. “Love that your personality’s lived-in too.” He lowered his lips to his neck, nibbled it.

“Please, Mr. Chau. No marks this time?”

“What’s the magic word, beautiful?”

“Entrails.” Hermann smiled as the biting stopped instantly.

A rumble of a laugh shivered up his skin as Chau nuzzled his shoulder. “Someone notice that strawberry last week and ask you all sorts of embarrassing questions?”

“No. No questions, and I’m not entirely certain it was noticed,” Hermann said truthfully—and oh, it felt wonderful to speak the truth after so many half-lies and evasions! “But…preventing those questions and notice is rather anxiety-producing.”

“Got it. No more biting up that lovely neck. Shoulders okay, though?”

“Oh yes. Nearly any other area as well, I imagine—”

“But not the obvious one. Mh, too bad. Like the thought of you walking around with my mark on you.”

And didn’t that thought nearly make him swoon? “You are an incurable satyr, Mr. Chau,” Hermann teased.

“Yup. That’s me.”

“May I touch your hair?”

“Nope. But not because I don’t want you to. But because, if you start playing with me, we’ll never get down to what I want to play with you tonight.”

Hermann moaned in abject frustration as Chau pulled back from his shoulder and straightened.

“You mind if I pick you up?”

“No, but I don’t see why you would,” Hermann said. “I am perfectly capable of walking, assisted, wherever you—”

“Great!” In what felt like one fluid motion, Chau scooped him into his arms in what Hermann could only term a bridal carry.

_Swept me off my feet_. The thought was a giddy thing that made him feel suddenly young. _He just did that quite literally. But I weigh sixty-five kilograms! The strength he must have!_

Chau, meanwhile, had carried him across the room and placed him carefully on the left end of the large sofa. He settled across from him and reached for a large salver on the end table.

“What is—”

“No, no, no.” Chau shot him a wicked grin. “Greedy boys don’t get to play with toys. And no covering up,” Chau growled the reminder as Hermann’s hands strayed to his chest again. “You’re mine for the night, and I want what I’m owed.”

Hermann immediately lowered his arms to his sides.

“Good boy.” Chau turned away from him and raised the cover on the salver and pushed the table away from the armrest so Hermann could see it. As he looked at the items it had hidden, Hermann didn’t know what he had ultimately expected, but that it had been another dessert of some sort; he suspected Mr. Chau was the kind of man who enjoyed hand-feeding his…sex partners, and, were Hermann honest, he had often fantasized about Newton doing as much with him. But the items on the large plate beneath the dome were not edible—well, aside from a small cup of fruit and the thermos Chau was in the process of unscrewing. The latter rattled with what sounded like ice cubes, and the vapor that drifted from its depths as he removed the lid confirmed Hermann’s suspicion. Coiled near the fruit was a strip of night-blue satin alongside smaller, thinner strips of the same.

“I don’t understand,” Hermann said.

“That’s the idea.” Chau reached into his jacket and removed a pair of maroon gloves made from what appeared to leather. “Something new each week. Keeps us both from getting bored.”

“That is not a word I would apply to our…assignations.”

“Great. Looks like I’m doing my job.” And oh, he liked that smirk very much. There was something…he supposed he would say menacing, but not the kind of menace that frightened him. Unless one could properly say that fear hardened one’s nipples to tack points and stirred one’s loins. _Odd, that._

“You were real disrespectful to me last week.”

“I beg your pardon? I was no such thing.”

“Sticking my thumb in your mouth,” Chau went on. “Nibbling it without my say-so. Said I’d punish you for that, and I got a long, long memory—’specially when it comes to naughty little things that act out of turn.”

Hermann felt his eyes widened.

“My God, kid, the look on your face. You’re eyeballing that tray like it’s got it in for you, Mouthy,” Hannibal chuckled. “It’s not gonna hurt you. No, son. This is the good kind of punishment. And if I play it right—and I always do—you’ll leave here loose and relaxed like you just came back from a week’s vacation. You do remember what that word means, right?”

“Oh, I daresay I may have gone on one once. Decades ago.”

“You know, I do believe that is the first joke you’ve ever cracked around me? Keep ’em coming.” Chau straightened a wrinkle on his glove. “Here’s another word for ya. Sense play. You ever hear tell of that?”

“No.” Hermann shook his head. “And I assume you are asking me because it is not a euphemism for intercourse?”

Chau pointed an index finger at him in a gun-like motion and clicked his tongue. “But it’s still sexy. Like touching but cranked up to eleven. But you gotta trust me for this to work, okay?”

_Don’t trust him_ , Pentecost had warned.

“That depends on what you wish to do, Mr. Chau.”

Chau uncoiled the dark-blue coils and held them up for Hermann’s consideration. “These are ties—gentle ones. Soft. About the softest I’ve found. I want to tie these around your wrists—”

“Certainly not!”

He held up a large hand. “Let me finish. God damn, you’re a reactionary little thing. I want to tie your wrists up with them _loosely_. Not so you can’t move ’em or so I cut off the circulation, but so you can’t immediately slap me away when I touch you with some of the stuff on this plate.” He gestured to the bizarre panoply. “And I also want you to wear this.” He held up the larger piece of cloth. “About the softest blindfold I’ve ever found too. So you can’t see what thing I’m gonna use next,” he said when Hermann felt his brow crease.

“I don’t see the purpose,” he said. “And, bluntly, this sounds like an odd exercise.”

“Nah.” Chau shook his head. “It’s about trust, gorgeous. Communication. You tell me if I do something you don’t like—not that you need any help in telling me off, though—and you trust that I’ll stop when you say so, or keep going when you say so.”

“And what do you get out of this arrangement?”

“Hopefully, I get to do something that turns your crank.”

“I asked what _you_ got out of the practice, Mr. Chau.”

Chau looked at him for a moment, and Hermann got the impression that he was thinking something over. After a few moments, he set the fabric aside on the arm of the sofa. When he spoke, his voice was gentler than Hermann had ever heard it, though thankfully it was still filled with smoke and iron.

“Kid, you wanna know what I did before I ran this show?” He indicated the room with a sweep of a large hand.

“Not particularly.”

“Jesus, you contrary little twerp.” Chau shook his head. “I’m not talking about murder and drugs and horse heads on mattresses. Whatever shit you think men like me do. I’m talking about sex.”

“Oh.” Hermann swallowed. “If it’s all the same to you, I really would prefer not to hear about your former lovers.”

“Nah, nah,” Chau said with another shake of his head. “I’m talking business, Mouthy. Not about pleasure. Although, sometimes, as you yourself now know, there was a lot of crossover. I’m not good at getting you off just because I like sex as much as the next dirty old man—I’m good at it cuz it used to do it for a living. Still do it from time to time when I’m in the mood and the right person catches my eye—just not for pay anymore.”

“You are a…?” Hermann tilted his head. The only word he could think of, _gigolo_ —or perhaps the equally coarse _prostitute_ —didn’t seem to fit at all. He supposed Chau had the flash for the part, but… really, if anything, he would surely be a procurer, a panderer.

“Dominant—Dom. That’s the words you’re looking for.”

“I see.” He didn’t, though, and Chau’s twenty-four-karat grin indicated that he understood this.

“You know what BDSM is?”

Hermann thought of handcuffs. Bruises. Pain. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Nope, guess not. You knew what a safeword was, though, remember?”

“Yes,” Hermann said uncertainly.

“Well, that’s part of it. And no, before you ask—doesn’t mean I tied down people and beat ’em to death.” He chuckled. “Other jobs I had, though—only fooling, Mouthy. Don’t give me the evil eye. All it means is I run the scene—whatever it is we’re doing. Like sense play.” He tapped the cloths with a finger. “But you’re the one that’s really in control.”

“That’s impossible,” Hermann informed him.

“Do I tell you how to do your job? Cuz, the way I see it, that numbers stuff you do is pretty damned impossible. No, see, if I was in control, I could do whatever the hell I wanted to you, no matter what you said.” His mouth pulled into a scowl that Hermann could only describe as feral. “We got a word for that, Mouthy, and I really, really like breaking the faces of people who do it. Personally.”

Hermann had to admit he was impressed by that sentiment, violent though it was.

“Explain this play, please,” he said, fully aware that his voice was soft, breathless for reasons he did not understand. “Why these items in particular. And why do you think I will enjoy them?”

“Can I see your hand for a sec? And no, not gonna tie it up without your say-so, kid, promise.”

With some reluctance, Hermann offered Chau his left hand, which the man cradled in his own red-gloved palm as if it were the most delicate of orchids. Hermann watched with interest as he turned it palm-up and raised it to his lips. The gold-plated incisors pinched the skin above his scaphoid bone near his wrist.

“Oh!” The shudder coursed up his arm like an injection of fire. “Ohhhh,” Hermann sighed as his eyelids fluttered like moth wings. Still, he could not help but be a tad annoyed at Chau’s superior grin.

“I rest my case,” the man said. “Your body’s like a lightning rod in a supercell, Gottlieb. Now, I want to play with that, and I think you might too.” Hannibal returned Hermann’s hand to his lap, patted it, and pulled the small table around until it was within Hermann’s reach. “I want to use this stuff to do what I just did with my mouth, only on every part of you I can see right now. That’s just as much sex as jerking you off is, and I think your pretty little body might like even more.”

“I see.” Hermann gave the items on the platter what he thought was a surreptitious glance. Chau’s deep chortle told him the endeavor had failed.

“Go ahead.” He waved his hand over them. “Take a look at everything on here. Touch it. Think about it. Anything’s up for vetoing.”

“Yes.” Hermann nodded as he wiggled closer to the table. “Yes, all right.”

Along with the thermos of ice and the bowl of fruit—mostly strawberries, Hermann noted—the platter contained five feathers of varying length and texture, a vial of amber oil, a short red candle, and a sleeve of matches. “For the wick, kid,” Chau said with some impatience in response to Hermann’s look. “I’m not gonna set you on fire even if you asked; not my kinda thing—unless it’s someone that’s pissed me off or that owes me money, I mean.”

Hermann ignored the bait and picked up the last item—a handle with several strips of suede that reminded him a little of a feather duster. He held it out to Chau questioningly.

“Oh, that? That’s a flogger. No, don’t worry—it can only do some damage if I beat on you with it, and that’s not what we’re doing. But feel how soft those tresses are? Imagine how they’d feel running across your chest.”

Hermann considered the apparatus as he trailed his fingers through the strips—tresses, had he called them? Suede had always been one of his favorite textures, and he did rather like the idea of being caressed with it.

“All are acceptable,” he said, putting the flogger down next to the candle.

Once again, Chau’s smile had the kind of menace that spread heat through Hermann’s belly and made his testicles tighten. He returned the table to the side of the couch and stood. “Can you stretch out on this thing? Sit up, though; I need to get under you so you can put your head and shoulders in my lap.”

Hermann nodded and used his arms and right leg to maneuver himself to sitting longways.

“Let’s take these off too, shall we?” Chau asked, crossing to the end of the sofa and tapping Hermann’s shoes with two fingers. When Hermann nodded, he made quick work of the laces on his oxfords and placed them on the floor. “One more thing. When we’re done, you might feel kind of out of it—that’d be the endorphins. But you’ll need some aftercare to come down from that high. I’d like to take you into the suite through there”—he waved a hand to a red door in the wall adjacent—“and wrap you up in some quilts. Cuddle you a bit. How’s that sound? Asking you now because you might be a little too blissed out for negotiating.”

“Acceptable,” Hermann said, though he wasn’t certain he liked the idea of being too “blissed out” for rational conversation.

“Just trust me, okay? Not gonna do anything to hurt you or scare you,” Chau reassured as he moved to the side of the sofa. When he sat and eased Hermann back into his lap, Hermann’s ear brushed against the other man’s belly. The idea of burying his face against it and laving it with his tongue was…

“Cozy?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Chau tapped his stomach, just above the waist of Hermann’s trousers. “Hands up here, Mouthy. Arms relaxed, wrists crossed. If you think you’re gonna diddle yourself while I do this, you’re wrong. I’ll be taking care of that too.”

Face flushed at the prospect of Chau’s hands on him again, Hermann did as ordered. The restraints, as promised, were indeed soft and tied tight enough that he could do nothing effective with his hands, yet not to the point of discomfort.

“Good?”

“Yes.”

A shiver racked his body as Chau tied the blindfold over his eyes, beginning in his toes and fissuring up through his bones.

“Excitable little thing,” his Dom purred. “Well, you just wait ’til we get going, son. I’ll give you plenty to scream about.”

Hermann certainly hoped so.

Chau’s weight shifted beneath him, as if the man were reaching for something on the table. Hermann heard the rattle of ice cubes against metal and tried not to tense in anticipation of cold against his bare skin. It did not come in the first second, nor in the first minute.

“Mr. Chau—”

“Shush.” Chau pressed a finger beneath his lower lip and flipped his mouth closed. “I’m in charge of this scene, gorgeous. Not you. Now shut that pretty mouth unless you’re moaning my name.”

Hermann did as told; he was far too aroused even to frown up at his tormentor.

The ice rattled again, near his ear this time. He turned his head in its direction, only to hear it rattle again.

Something soft tickled down the sweep of his throat.

Hermann twisted away from it with a snort.

“Tickles?” The feather came at him again, this time sweeping low around the bud of a nipple.

“Hee—no. I—”

“Liar.”

The feather stroked upward between the cleft of his pectorals and circled his clavicle.

“M-Mr. Chau!” Hermann giggled.

“Oh, this is just too cute,” Chau rumbled as the feather curled around and around his neck.

“Stop!” Hermann panted. “Stop! Oh, oh please! Ha-ha-ha!”

“Mh, you really mean that, gorgeous? Cuz you know that ain’t the magic word.”

Hermann laughed and squirmed as the feather attacked the seam of his armpit. “Oh!” he shrieked. “Please! Please!”

And just like that, the feather went away.

Hermann breathed as deeply as he could, trying to stop his snickering.

“Hm. Pretty interesting, huh?” Chau asked. His weight shifted again and the ice cubes returned. Hermann tried to still himself in preparation for the bloom of cold against his throat, a nipple, his lips—

Something soft and springy slid across his pout. Hermann’s tongue flicked after it and tasted something tart and very red as it passed. A full strawberry!

“Oh no you don’t.” Chau’s tone was light, playful as he made a circuit of Hermann’s lips, keeping the fruit well out of reach of being tongued or pulled inside. “You know how much these things cost to import? Sure, I gotta guy that sets me up, but that ain’t the point. You don’t get it unless you’re a good boy. And you haven’t proved it yet.”

“A good boy?” Hermann felt heat prickle his cheeks.

“Mh, that’s right, Mouthy. My good boy.” The strawberry disappeared, evading Hermann’s attempt to snap it with his incisors.

Young though he may have been from Chau’s perspective, Hermann was certainly not a child, and would not be spoken of as such! He was about to inform the man of this when that leather-covered finger returned to his mouth.

“Seems you’re still hungry after all that food,” Chau purred as he traced the same route the berry had taken. “But I can’t give you that little treat just yet. Still, I can’t be a bad host, now can I? So what am I gonna do with you? Oh, yeah. That’s right. You like putting things in here that you shouldn’t, huh?” 

The finger pushed into his mouth; Hermann squeaked at the taste of slick, bitter leather.

“Suck it, boy.”

Moaning, Hermann obeyed, sliding his tongue around the digit as if it were a bright-red lollipop, then as if it were a popsicle. As if it were one of the impressive members he had seen in one of the pornographic films; as if he were crouched before one of the Bears, serving him with his tongue, his mouth—

He whimpered as his hips rose from the couch and bucked against the air.

“That’s six hundred US dollars of Versace leather you’re wrecking.” Chau’s voice curled around him as another gloved hand splayed across his bare stomach. “Dirty little mouthy thing. You like wrecking my stuff, huh?”

“Mhhh.” Hermann sucked the finger in to its second knuckle. He did not for a moment mind the saliva dripping from his lips—astonishingly, the presence of the fluid only excited him further.

“Yeah? Huh. Looks like I’m gonna have to punish you some more, then.”

Chau’s finger popped from his mouth, and Hermann whined—yes, whined! Good heavens!—for it to return.

“Please, Mr. Chau—”

“Nope.” The ice rattled again. “That’s for business. Soon as we get this party started, I’m Sir to you.”

An image of Marshal Hansen flickered up. Tall, muscular, five o’clock shadow prominent on his firm jaw. Another: Hermann, naked, arms bound behind his back, kneeling before him as the marshal circled him slowly, a predator given a dove for the plucking.

“Don’t keep me waiting, brat.” Chau’s growl shattered the image just as the marshal started to unzip himself.

“Sir,” Hermann stammered. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good boy.” The strawberry pressed against his lips. “Go on, you’ve earned it. No foolin’.”

Hermann tugged it into his mouth and, oh, the flavor of it! That tart, perfect sweetness! He wasn’t aware that he was moaning until wet leather pressed against his lips.

“Shhh. Noisy little thing. Save all that for later; we’re just getting started.”

Hermann had no inkling how much time had passed—or, really, even how time itself was passing. Seconds, minutes, all were irrelevant with only sensation and lack of sensation as points of demarcation. How did one measure the dripping of hot wax across his shoulders and down his pectorals? That fire could have pelted him for a minute or an hour; like a clock it cycled from burn to warmth to wax in a heady dance of the hours. Did the sting of ice cubes, the drip of melt water last mere seconds? The constant promise of their rattle seemed a glacier’s age. And oh, Chau’s hands! That soft, astringent leather ghosting his shoulders, spidering his chest, pinching nipples.

When the flail swept across his neck, Hermann surprised himself by sobbing. But not from pain or terror—the tears that soaked his blindfold

_I cannot_ , he thought. _I cannot remember when anyone but Newton has touched me except to manipulate me or to hurt me._

A foolish notion. His rational self, floating somewhere nearby, reminded him that the legions of doctors, nurses, physical therapists, medical students, and pharmacists had done so to heal him. And he had long ago accepted that the few hugs his father had given him as a child were designed for anything but to ensure his dependency and obedience. It shouldn’t matter, and yet he could not stop weeping as Chau flicked the tresses across his shoulders, his chest, his flanks.

But these weren’t tears from pain or sorrow or any oppression.

“Good boy,” Chau whispered. “That’s so good, Hermann.”

They were tears that sprung from pleasure and something Hermann almost wanted to call joy.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermann's education continues. Pentecost is displeased. Midori's night gets ruined. And Hannibal realizes some things.

Holy jeez.

For a moment, Hannibal could hardly move. Hell, watching Hermann writhe in his lap, sobbing and squirming and all but wrecked, he damn near forgot where he was.

Kid was a lightning field for sensation. Even first-timers weren’t usually this sensitive, and damned if he’d seen a lot of first-timers lose their shit in the dungeons he’d used back in Vegas, Krakow, Vladivostok, and here. But to quite this level after just a little teasing with some ice cubes, a few toys, and a strawberry, not so much.

Sure as God made big green Kaiju, his boy had flown right off into subspace in record time.

Holy jeez, indeed.

Hannibal gently trailed the tresses across Hermann’s collarbone one more time before lifting the flail and putting it back on the tray. Hermann didn’t resist, or even seem to notice as he shifted him into a seated position and then gently tugged him onto his lap.

“You did great, beautiful,” he soothed as he wrapped Hermann up in his arms. “You did real great. I’m so proud of you. So damn proud.”

Just like with scuba diving, it wasn’t good to make someone emerge too quickly when they’d just gone right off into the stratosphere like that. Hannibal kissed the kid’s limp hair a few times before slowly untying his wrists and stroking both of them. He hadn’t tied the soft cord all that tight and it hadn’t left a mark, but with a sensitive body like this one, it might just as well have for what Hermann would probably be feeling.

“It’s all right,” he soothed as Hermann continued to shudder and whimper little open-mouthed nonsenses against his chest. “Here, now. Keep your eyes closed for me, okay? Gonna take this blindfold off you, and don’t wanna knock you over with too much light.” Not that the room was all that bright, but it never hurt to be too careful. “Can you do that?”

“Y-yes,” Hermann sniffled. And when Hannibal removed the cloth, he turned his head further into his chest. His skinny arms looped up around his shoulders and held fast, as if he’d just been saved from drowning. And well, Hannibal thought, if the shoe fit…

“Good boy,” he purred as he rocked the man against him. Hermann didn’t protest, either, when Hannibal lifted his chin and kissed the tears budding at the corners of those big brown eyes, pupils still blown black and wide as outer space.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Hermann said in a tone like weak green tea. “I’m… I don’t know what came over me. I really don’t…”

“Shh.” Hannibal stroked along the pout of that wide mouth. “Nothing to be sorry about. Those weren’t unhappy tears, right?”

Hermann looked a little dazed, but nodded hesitantly. “Not unhappy tears, no.”

“Okay, then.” Hermann really did have nice hair, Hannibal considered as he ran a hand through the sweaty locks again. A bit fine, sure, but not too thin; soft too. It was stupid, but it reminded him of the suede on the flogger he’d just sent the kid to heaven with. “No.” He shook his head when Hermann’s froggy mouth popped open again. “No thinking now, kid. Just relax. Go with it. I gotcha.”

The way Hermann looked at him for a moment, Hannibal was sure he was going to object. Say some shit about how thinking was the only thing that separated humanity from the planktons or brought it closer to the angels. But then the kid just nodded and tucked himself back against his body.

“You’re warm.” Hannibal more felt than heard the words as Hermann whispered them against his pectorals.

And that was their cue to exit stage left.

“You wanna get warmer, sweetheart?”

“Hmmm,” Hermann said as Hannibal pushed up to his feet, lifting him along the way. “The strength you have.”

“You like that?” Hannibal adjusted his grip on the kid to keep them from overbalancing. “Comes courtesy of plenty of spinach and eating the hearts of my enemies.”

“Ha-ha,” Hermann said lazily as Hannibal strode across the room. Then, somewhat dizzily: “Where are we going?”

“Figured you might want a little lie down after coming back from the moon.” Hannibal stopped in front of the wall and nudged the toe of his shoe against the divot lurking like a gum-line cavity right where hardwood met wainscot. Hermann raised his head and looked over his shoulder as the hidden door rattled inward on soft lighting and a whisper of vanilla.

“You’ve got rather a _tendre_ for secret rooms, haven’t you?”

“Guess so.” Hannibal chuckled as he carried Hermann through the doorway. Trust the mouthy little brat to keep on sassing him even after he was too blissed out to stand.

Thing about sex work was it was damn fine work when you got it, but not nearly as profitable as stringing out half the Atlantic on Blu and convincing the rest of the world to buy what was basically overpriced cold cuts a la H.P. Lovecraft. Thing about those two jobs, though, was that they gave a person like him the cash to build a few of the playrooms he’d only been able to dream about when he was renting by the hour from people that didn’t share his tastes, didn’t have what he wanted, or wouldn’t let him bring it in. This particular setup was a bit less intense for someone of Hermann’s experience, though. A classy bedroom in calmer shades of reds and purples than most of his domain and a comfy king-size tester bed right in the middle with plenty of hooks, holes, and bars for restraints—unless someone wasn’t looking for them, of course. Nope, to the vanilla eye—or the more timid submissive’s eye—it was just the kind of bed you saw in dreams or maybe in the movies. 

Hermann made a noise like the distant, shy cousin of a sigh and a moan as Hannibal lowered him to the turned-down sheets and propped him up against a pile of pillows. The susurration heated up several degrees of sensual as the kid kneaded his right hand against the fabric.

“You like ’em?” Hannibal asked as he crossed the room to the small refrigerator in the corner. “Egyptian cotton. Thread count even your computers couldn’t track.”

“That’s absurd,” Hermann murmured as Hannibal nudged the door open and reached in for a bottle of water.

“Yeah, so it’s four hundred. Don’t pull the curtain back on the wizard, okay?” Hannibal bumped the door back into place and returned to Hermann’s side as he unscrewed the cap. “But this here’s honest-to-God spring water,” he said as he handed it over. “Sip on that ’til it’s gone and relax.”

“What are you doing?” Hermann asked as Hannibal sat down next to him.

“You mind if I get in here with you?” Hannibal leaned forward and stroked a lock of hair that couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to become a cowlick. “Cozier that way, and you’re pretty damn nice to hold.”

Color spotted Hermann’s cheeks as he raised the bottle to his lips, and goddamn if those deer eyes of his didn’t look even bigger and brighter. “I think I would like that very much,” he said after he’d lowered it.

“Yeah? Glad to hear it.” Hannibal toed his gold-plated wingtips off and swung up into bed next to him, tugging the blankets up around them as he went. Draping an arm around Hermann’s bare shoulders, he pulled the smaller man against his side.

“Comfy?”

“Yes.” Hermann’s eyes widened as he turned to face him. “Sorry. Should that be ‘Yes, sir,’ or—”

Hannibal held up a hand. “Don’t worry about it. When you’ve fallen through the rabbit hole, remembering ravens and writing desks can wait ’til you’ve figured out whether or not that cake that says ‘Eat Me’ is gonna kill you. What?” he asked when Hermann chuckled. “Big, bad guy like me can’t read Lewis Carroll now? Thought you’d like that, him being a math guy and all.”

“Oh, not at all.” Hermann took another sip of water. “Indeed, it fits with the pattern you’ve established.”

“I got a pattern now, huh?”

“Quite.” Another sip, and then Hermann nestled closer against him. “You are entirely unpredictable, surprising.”

“Huh.” Hannibal felt his lips tug into a smirk. “That all?”

“No.” Hermann turned his head and fixed him with those huge eyes. “I daresay you are also quite astonishing, superlative…dashing, rather. Part highwayman, part Don Giovanni.”

“Superlative, huh?”

“It is a good word, Mr. Chau. A very good word,” Hermann said as he leaned closer.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Hermann looked down at the duvet, eyes suddenly half-lidded and demure.

They sat like that for a good ten minutes by Hannibal’s estimation, the kid snuggling up against him nursing his water while Hannibal petted his hair and kissed at his earlobe, and told him how proud he’d made him. It wasn’t a lie, either. He was taking to this sex thing like hops to beer, and that was the hottest thing Hannibal had seen since… well, better not to think of a when, probably. That was just rude.

“I would very much like to kiss you now,” Hermann said suddenly. “I-if I may, that is. I’m not certain if the rules—”

“Go ahead, meatball. I’m all yours.”

“Oh. Yes. All right, then.” Hermann wrapped both hands around the now-empty bottle as if he just knew he’d drop it if he so much as breathed wrong. He then leaned up, puckering his lips like a cartoon fish. Hannibal expected him to just mash them against his and keep them there—after all, the kid probably hadn’t even practiced making out with his hand until a few weeks ago. And while it started out that way, Hannibal was surprised when that wide mouth parted and sucked his lower lip into its heat. The erection he’d barely been holding off ever since they’d really gotten this evening off to a start jerked awake and paid attention—especially when the tip of Hermann’s tongue glided across his upper lip.

_Holy jeez again._

“Was that satisfactory?” Hermann asked when he came up for air. And the cute part was, he actually looked like he wanted to know the answer—and like wanted to do better if teacher only gave him a B plus.

“Oh, I think you did satisfactory pretty good there,” Hannibal reassured him. “But maybe you outta try again for some extra credit.”

Hermann smiled and was leaning in apparently to do just that when his face suddenly contorted.

“Mouthy?” Hannibal asked, catching the water bottle before it tumbled from Hermann’s hands.

“It’s fine.” Though that pinched look on his face looked anything but. “A few muscle cramps merely.”

“Your leg?” Hannibal asked as Hermann rested a hand on his left thigh.

“Yes, but it isn’t as you may think. It typically hurts—somewhat, though today the pain is tolerable. And naturally, medication helps—a cocktail of them. I cannot, however, say the same for my back and shoulders.”

“You haven’t been stretching right, have you?” Hannibal frowned as he put the empty bottle on the nightstand to the right of the bed.

“I confess it…does rather slip my mind when I’ve this many fires to put out.” The look Hermann gave him was pure guilty schoolboy. “One would think, after twelve years, that I would know better.”

“One would think,” Hannibal echoed as he traced the contours of one bony cheek. “The PPDC got a physical therapist on staff?”

“Yes.” Hermann nodded. “Though she has far more patients to concern herself with than just me, you know. And it is not neglect, as frustrating as it is for all involved—none of us are getting the medical care we truly should be.” He sighed and leaned into Hannibal’s touch. “Entirely awry, but I try to be understanding, even if perhaps I shouldn’t be.”

Hannibal tried to hold back his scowl. _Awry_ didn’t even begin to cover it.

“You know, ten years ago, even three, I wouldn’t have stood for it?” Hermann winced again as he slid his right hand onto his left shoulder and rubbed it with two fingers. “I asked for very little when joining the PPDC, but the ability to do my work unencumbered by architecture or pain was rarely negotiable.” He shook his head, looking disgusted. “Desperate times, of course, but I often do feel as if I am betraying that younger man.”

“Nah, betrayal ain’t the same as adapting,” Hannibal said. “Do me a favor, kid? Turn over on your stomach if you can.”

Again with those pretty little rosettes of embarrassment all over his face and neck, making him look scalded with scandal. “Mr. Chau, much as I am flattered by your attentions, I don’t think I can manage—penetration tonight.” He said the word like a schoolboy might, all soft and low tones, as if he expected a nun to jump out of the shadows and break a ruler over his back for saying something dirty.

His dick twitched, just like it did every time Hermann acted like the bashful little novice he was under all that priggish bluster.

“No, not for that,” he clarified. “I want to empty my balls in that hot little ass someday, but not tonight.”

Those rosettes turned into splotches, making Hermann look scalded with scandal—and lust. Oh, he saw those big black pupils, all right.

“Mh. You giving me those doe-eyed looks isn’t dissuading me any, so you know. But like I said, I’m not trying to get fresh with you again. You look like you need a good massage, and lucky for you, I know how to give one. Oh, c’mon. You don’t believe me?” he asked when Hermann gave him a disbelieving look. He held up his hands and wriggled his fingers. “With hands like these? I’ll have you know, Mouthy, they were a hit on the Strip. All those stressed-out business types and gamblers and tourists with more money than the devil and less imagination? There’s shooting fish in a barrel, and then there’s making a meal out of ’em.”

That big mouth twitched into a slow smile. “You know, Mr. Chau, half the time I’ve no idea what you’re saying, and the other half I’m more than reasonably certain I wish I didn’t.” Was he kidding himself, or was said smile actually kind of…fond?

“I don’t’ know if I should be flattered or insulted there, kid,” he said, opting not to decide. “Now turn over and let me fix you up.”

“I’m not undressing further.”

Hannibal rolled his eyes, even though Hermann couldn’t see the motion. “No one said you had to. Now stop gabbing and roll over—across the bed, though. I keep the headrest on the right side. You need some help getting there?”

Hermann looked at him suspiciously, but finally he nodded. Hannibal patted him on the shoulder before easing off the bed and lifting that light little body again. The owner of said light little body didn’t say anything as Hannibal placed his body lengthwise, head facing the door and helped him roll onto his belly.

“Be right with you, Gottlieb. Try and relax,” he said as he untucked the duvet and wrapped Hermann up in it like he was a burrito.

When Hannibal put together the most vanilla of his playrooms, he’d never imagined it becoming an ad hoc massage studio—though that was the definition of ad hoc right there, wasn’t it? And then seven years ago Johnny the dumbass had tried to lug more Kaiju guts than he could—probably to impress Mai—and thrown his damfool back out. Two days later, Yayoi’d sprained an ankle protecting him after a particularly bad dust up with some Yakuza who weren’t too happy about Hannibal and his operation trying to move into Japan. The day after that, Ming had taken a tumble down some stairs and messed up her left wrist. His base of operations was beginning to look like a god damn hospital, so Hannibal had decided to turn it into one. Sure, it’d taken more than the best massage in Vegas to put his people to rights, but they sure as hell healed up faster with a little help.

All it had taken was fitting the bed with a pop-up headrest on the right side, because Hannibal sure as fuck wasn’t ripping the baseboard off the expensive California king for anyone. Put some nice massage oil in one of the cabinets, a towel warmer in the en suite bathroom, and he was good to go. Hannibal moved said headrest into place and draped a cover over it. “Head in here,” he told Hermann as he pulled open the small cabinet next to the bed.

“You got any skin allergies I outta know about?” he asked as he looked over the choices inside. “Cuz I got plain massage oil, and a couple special blends. Peppermint oil, eucalyptus, rose hips. That’s good for inflammation, which you’ve probably got.”

“That sounds lovely,” came the voice from the burrito. “Thank you.”

“Made it myself,” Hannibal said as he closed the door.

“Oh for goodness’ sake,” Hermann grunted. “Please tell me it isn’t a Kaiju remedy.”

And damned if he didn’t hear the sardonic little quotes around those words. Hannibal couldn’t help but chuckle as he dragged a stool over to the bed’s left side “Nope, no Kaiju colors, flavors, or preservatives. Just pure, one hundred percent, natural goodness from our planet.” He shifted the blanket away from Hermann’s back and deposited his gold rings in his vest pocket. “Gonna warm the oil up a bit, but it still might make you twitch a little when I put it on you,” he noted as he squirted a tablespoon or so into his palm.

“Oh, I daresay I’ve lived through worse,” came Hermann’s muffled voice.

Chuckling again, Hannibal slicked his palms up and moved his hands onto Hermann’s shoulders. “God damn.” He whistled. “The damn Tin Man’s got a softer trapezius.”

“Hmph.”

“Relax, just messing with you.” Hannibal drifted his hands down the kid’s back, to the slight spread of his hips, feeling out where the knots were, plotting his course.

He started with the kid’s titanium trapezius, working his thumbs in gently to warm his body up to being touched. “How deep can I go?”

“I routinely have appointments where my therapists use the descendants of medieval torture devices to break up my considerable scar tissue—or, at least I did when I had regular sessions. I doubt you will hurt me.”

“Well, all the same,” Hannibal said as he pressed down just a little harder, “rather have you walking out of here than crawling.”

“Mh.” It seemed to be an agreement, so Hannibal worked his thumbs into the hard muscles to soften them up a bit before he could start the real work. Another cursory feel down Hermann’s scarred back revealed a knots that seemed to wrap from his left hip up to his right shoulder—definitely the fault of that injured leg. His hip flexors were a pretty big mess too.

“Hey, can I take your pants down a bit? Not gonna try and cop a feel or anything—unless you want that, of course. Just so I can reach your glutes a bit better.”

“Yes, that is fine.”

Hannibal wiped his hands on the duvet, then reached under the kid’s body and opened his belt buckle. Careful to avoid groping him any, he slipped those too-big pants halfway down his body.

He said he wouldn’t get sexy, but he sure as hell didn’t say he wouldn’t admire. And he did as he oiled his hands again.

Like his back, Hermann’s ass was nicked with scars in just about every shade of red the human body could produce and a couple Hannibal was pretty sure it shouldn’t. It was a bit on the narrow side, just like the rest of him, but a little curvy, probably from impending middle age and inactivity—God knows, the kid probably didn’t get that much exercise between his disabilities and the ridiculous work hours. It was also just as locked up as the rest of his body.

Hannibal shook his head. He’d think about plowing Hermann later. Now, he needed to make the Mouthy little thing feel good.

There were as many ways to fix a body as there were to hurt it, and learning the one usually meant you knew something of the other. He’d learned that lesson early on, and not just from those two Vegas massage therapists who’d taken in a scared kid with a battered-up briefcase and more guns and knives than anyone needed to carry. No, they weren’t his first teachers. And too bad for that.

Not that he’d think about that now. _Stay in the moment. Worst thing you can do to the kid is travel back in time while your hands go on autopilot._

Hermann’s body had more knots than a sailor’s net and enough scars to bring the comparison right on home, but thankfully it was just as responsive as it’d been out on the sofa. As Hannibal worked his way down from Hermann’s dinged-up trapezius to his latissimus, his obliques, and his glutes, he couldn’t help but smile.

Man alive, the little scientist was a moaner. More than anyone he’d ever worked on before. You’d think he was getting fucked by four porn stars the way he carried on when his shoulders got pressed on.

“You keep that up, I may just go back on my word,” Hannibal teased.

Hermann gave a muffled groan as he raised his hips like a cat. “I am inclined to think your advertising may have been telling the truth, Mr. Chau. Your hands are indeed...most adroit.”

“Adroit, huh?” Hannibal returned to the triangle of muscles between Hermann’s shoulders. Overdeveloped and hard as cannon balls, not to mention crunchy—how long did the kid spend hunched over a computer every day, or whatever it was he did in the lab? The scar tissue beneath his fingerpads felt satiny, like the delicate skin of a cupid’s bow. Same color as it too, though in some places the whorls and lines were white or earthy-brown. Those scars tore down his back in strips in some places, scattered like buckshot in others, looked like loud little mouths in still more. Not much made Hannibal flinch, but he sure as hell didn’t want to think about what kind of a pounding that rubble had given Hermann to mess him up this bad.

“It is a good word,” Hermann stuttered. “A magnificent word. Oh goodness. Oh.”

He shifted his hips again, and as far as Hannibal was concerned once was a coincidence, twice was a boner.

“You getting hard over this, Mouthy?” When the kid’s only answer was the tips of his ears glowing, Hannibal snorted and patted his back, which curved in a couple ways that probably didn’t do his muscles any favors. “No embarrassment, remember? I can’t even count the number of people that got turned-on when I worked ’em over. Men, women, people who didn’t tick either or both of those little boxes, you name it. Fortunately for them, I was just as _adroit_ at taking care of that too.”

Hermann made a strangled little sound and rocked his hips again.

“Gotta work your trapezius over again and get your arms and wrists. Then you want me to take care of your little problem?”

Another little helpless noise and a helpless little nod, and fuck if that didn’t make him hard enough to gut a Kaiju.

“Yeah,” Hannibal chuckled as he worked his knuckles over Hermann’s bone-hard erector spinae—and Jesus, what the hell kind of witchcraft allowed the kid to even move his head? “Also the reason I was paid under the table was because of what I did on the table—licensing boards don’t look too kindly on some extras.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Hermann drawled as Hannibal worked the pads of his thumbs in deeper. “Mhhn.”

“Pressure okay, kid?”

“Yes, thank you. You needn’t ask me again; I’ll tell you if that changes. But…there is always some discomfort in, mmm, having one’s body set to rights—as much as it can be set to rights, anyway. Will you talk to me?”

“You one of those people that gets all chatty when someone’s poking around in your back?”

“How did you—mm—learn to do this, and when?”

“Thought we made a rule about not asking questions about me.”

“On the contrary”—and goddamn if he couldn’t hear the smirk in the kid’s voice—“rule four stipulates that you must answer any question I put to you—and you yourself are responsible for—ohhh—for the creation of that rule.”

Hannibal was about to tell him the rules didn’t hold true for anything outside the bedroom, but really it just seemed easier to tell the kid what he wanted to know. None of it was really all that vital or potentially damaging, anyway.

“Okay, Mouthy, you win,” he said as he continued to work those stubborn erectors. “When I was twenty-two, I lived in Vegas, and like everyone on this crapsack world, I needed to eat. The couple I was sharing a condo with said I had good hands, as you’re feeling right now, and so we came to an arrangement. They taught me massage and fed me, and I did the cooking, cleaning, and shopping, and let them fuck me silly every night they felt like it.”

Hermann raised his head and looked over his shoulder at him, those deep-brown eyes wide.

“Keep your head straight, Mouthy,” Hannibal said, gently tilting him back into the headrest. “I’m getting in pretty deep on your neck here, so unless you want to leave here crying in a bad way, hold still.”

“Yes, of course. My apologies.” Hermann relaxed again. “I was simply surprised. The image of you as a—well, I’m sorry, I know ‘prostitute’ is not a flattering term, but—”

“Woah, woah, woah. Never said I was their call boy, son.” Hannibal pressed his thumbs back into the unwieldy muscles. “Nah, I was their submissive— You want me to loosen these up for you or not?”

“I’m sorry.” Hermann returned to the headrest. “I just cannot imagine you submitting to anyone.”

“Oh, they knew that. But as Mistress Kira put it—”

“Mistress Kira?”

“The wife, gabby. You want this story, then stop interrupting.” Hannibal lightly slapped him across the hips. “Anyway, in her opinion, you couldn’t be a good Dominant without knowing what a submissive did and needed and felt like—and she was right, by the way. I was a wild little shit that needed to be taught some discipline.”

_And damn near scared out of my mind._

“When I calmed down a bit and got what she was trying to do, she taught me how to Dom her husband, and a couple other subs in the scene. But I gotta say, none of ’em was as pretty as you.”

He felt Hermann bristle all the way down to his hips. “There is nothing at all submissive about me, Mr. Chau. I will ask you not to insult me.”

“Not an insult, kid. Just the truth.” He rubbed those bony shoulders gently, trying to sooth now instead of heal. “Nothing’s wrong with having brown hair like you do, right? Or using a cane?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, then what’s wrong with the kind of sex you like?” Hannibal stroked his back, waiting for an answer. “Look,” he said, when none came, “submissive doesn’t mean you don’t take charge or can’t—you don’t think you can make a whole room of people take you seriously just by shooting them that death glare of yours?”

“There was a time when they didn’t,” Hermann said, so softly Hannibal almost didn’t hear him. “Many times.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re incapable if you want to be taken care of, either,” he said as he smoothed a hand up Hermann’s back. “Just means you like what you like. Mistress Kira’s guy? Had his own bakery. Other subs I’ve played around with were businesspeople, CEOs, lots of academic types too. Some of ’em probably even scientists. Some of ’em definitely had canes, and more. You get where I’m going with this?”

“Yes.”

“Mh, you better.” Hannibal returned to working his trapezius. “Not gonna have you feeling ashamed of yourself.”

“Tell me more about Las Vegas.”

“It’s like Disneyland and a carnival got wasted, fucked, and shitted out a baby, and not necessarily in that order, then stole five hundred bucks out of your pocket for the favor. I’d take the bone slums any day.”

“I meant your time there, Mr. Chau.” And there was his bossy little Mouthy again.

“Oh, not a whole lot to tell. Rubbed a lot of backs. Had a ton of sex. Dodged a couple bullets.”

_In more than just the figurative sense of the word._

“How does someone progress from being a massage therapist and sex worker to…your current occupation, however one would describe it?”

“Circumstances.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Dammit. Kid was sassing him again in that priggish professor tone he had.

“All you’re gonna get tonight, kid. Now hush up. Need to concentrate on your arms.”

“Hmph.” But Hermann didn’t ask him anymore questions while he squirted more oil into the cup of a palm and worked those scrawny biceps and shaky hands into something that felt a bit like flesh and muscle again. Though Hannibal had the feeling the kid wasn’t going to drop the matter forever; once you got bit by the curiosity bug, you got a fever, simple as that.

“There you go.” He lifted his hands from that narrow waist after a little final alignment work. “You feel like a million dollars yet?”

“Mh.” The kid moved his pelvis again, reminding Hannibal about that little growing problem.

“Uh-huh.” He slid his hand under a bony hip and, sure enough, that problem had gotten a whole lot bigger.

“Mr. Chau,” Hermann moaned as he wriggled into his palm. “I would—very much like to see what kind of extra favors you gave your clients.”

“You do, huh?”

“Yes, sir. I’m so terribly curious.” And that voice was so terribly innocent and breathless and dammit if the kid wasn’t banging his knuckles against every one of Hannibal’s buttons right now, the little shit.

Hannibal swallowed. _Well. Fuck me._ Because it sure the hell was working.

“On your back, kid. You can get there without help?”

“Yes.” Sure enough, the kid managed to lever himself up onto his right side and ease on over. There were stars in his eyes when he landed.

“Amazing,” he whispered. “Truly remarkable.”

Hannibal grinned at him. “Feels good to have some blood flow back again, don’t it? Bet you nearly forgot your head could turn that far too.”

“I wasn’t necessarily referring to that,” Hermann said with that sphinxy smile, “but yes. The increased blood flow is nice too.”

_Well, hell. Clever little bastard._

Hermann closed his eyes and sighed, everything about him softer than Hannibal had ever seen it.

Well, except for that bulge creeping up his white boxer-briefs. His back arched as Hannibal dragged a nail down to the unzipped and unbuttoned waistband riding low on Hermann’s hips.

_Greedy little cat._

“You mind if I take these off?” Hannibal flicked the button on the open placket. “Don’t want to mess your clothes up.”

“I—”

“Gonna get you naked at some point before this is all said and done, you know. Tonight’s as good as any.”

Hermann didn’t open his eyes, but his mouth pulled into a tight little line that could’ve either meant he was thinking it over or quietly getting all scandalized. Hannibal was a bit surprised when he nodded stiffly.

“Yes. All right. But, please. Nothing too vigorous.”

“What, you mean no anal?” Aw, he couldn’t help it; the kid was too cute when he blushed like a school marm. “No worries, gorgeous. We got a bit more to go before I knock on your back door.”

“Must you be so vulgar?”

“Yep. Vulgarity’s half the fun. What, you don’t think a little dirty talk’d work you up?”

“Certainly not.”

“Mh-hm.” Well, that solved the problem of this week’s agenda right there, Hannibal decided as he tugged the rest of the kid’s ugly, over-washed and over-worn clothes down his legs, sending up a little flurry of chalk dust. Christ Almighty, did the kid bathe in the stuff like a chinchilla or something?

Not that he cared too much about that as Hermann’s cock sprung up from his frayed underwear.

_Damn._

A little curved, head nice and crimson now the foreskin had eased back—and goddamn, did Hannibal find that foreskin sexy as all hell; he’d always liked an uncut dick, and on Mouthy it was like it was one more layer he’d wrapped himself up in to hide. A bit on the small side, but Hannibal couldn’t have given a crap. It wasn’t how big you were, but what you did with it. And a good five inches hard was plenty. It peeked out from a thicket of chestnut curls that’d probably never seen a razor or a pair of scissors—not that he could blame the kid. Killing Kaiju ranked much higher than pubic grooming on anyone who wasn’t a jackfuck’s priority list. Besides, shaving anything you didn’t have to was a waste of time, as far as he was concerned.

The scars he saw on the kid’s thighs, especially the left one, made the ones on his chest and back look like scratches. The flesh looked someone had sewn it up with their eyes shut, pulling it tight along the line of Hermann’s femur and puffing it out in other places. Hell, his kneecap was pretty much all pink and brown and beige, like it’d been bruised all over and they’d only ever faded halfway. The entire line of his fibula might well have just been one long scar. A couple straight lines here and there made him think of surgeries; briefly he wondered how many times the kid had gone under the knife to get put back together.

Made him want to personally stab out the eyes of the next Kaiju that stomped into Asia, and damn what those sick fucks in DC’d pay to boil ’em down for soup.

“Mr. Chau?” Hermann’s voice snapped him out of it. The kid’s eyes were open, and he looked both defensive and nervous as a cat in water.

Just about the most beautiful boy he’d ever seen.

“Can I—”

“Yes. You may.”

Hannibal nodded and ran his palms along the outside of Hermann’s leg, gently this time, not feeling for knots or sore spots, but to just _feel_. He followed with his lips, moth-flutters of kisses in a winding path up to the crease between Hermann’s inner thigh and pelvis.

“I want to put my mouth on this.” Sure, he’d been saving that for next week, but what the hell? Didn’t help to over-plan. “That okay, Hermann?”

“Please.” It was small, quiet, half-strangled in that long throat, like Hermann was dying of thirst and he’d just been offered a glass of coconut water.

“Okay, gorgeous. Be right back before you even miss me.” Hannibal patted his hip reassuringly and eased off the stool. Good thing he kept condoms right on top of the nightstand, he thought as he grabbed one from the red glass bowl there.

“Mr. Chau? What are you doing?” Hermann asked, lifting up on his elbows as Hannibal tore the package open and removed the white circle.

“Much as I’d like to taste you, I’m not gonna risk giving you herpes or something. I mean, I’m careful to wrap it up, but it’s been a couple months since I got tested. Not had a reason to, if you know what I mean. But I’m not a hundred percent sure I don’t got some bug or another, so the glove goes on.”

“Oh.” Hermann said, like he was trying to wrap his blissed-out mind around that. Then, “Oh!” all long and throaty as Hannibal poked the condom over his cockhead and rolled it down his shaft.

Fighting off his own hard-on, Hannibal finished pulling the kid’s clothes off his legs, then slipped his arms under Hermann’s shoulders and thighs and turned him around on the bed so his head was settled on the pillows again. The mattress dipped as he crawled up next to those stocking-clad feet—argyle. Honest to God argyle that probably predated the Kaiju.

“Gonna leave these on,” he said. God, the thought of the kid wrapped around him wearing nothing but those ass-ugly socks would’ve been enough to make him come if he was a less disciplined man. Of course, with that limp, he’d have to take another tack. He scooted up the bed and rolled onto his right side, then leaned over Hermann’s thighs. Damn if the kid didn’t look fit to blow already under that latex.

“You ready for this?” Hannibal asked him.

“Yes. I think so,” Hermann whispered.

Hannibal had been a Grade-A cocksucker when he’d stumbled out of that beat-up bus into Vegas. Two years with Mistress Kira and sub avery had made him a fucking artist, and same as any artist, he knew how to choose his tools. Much as he wanted to slide that length past his lips and go to town, eating the kid’s dick like that’d probably put him in a coma with how sensitive his was. Sure enough, one lick up that lollipop had Mouthy shivering like he was running out of January toward a nice hot fireplace.

“Good?” As if he really needed to ask. Hermann keened and squinched his eyes shut as he drummed the heels of his hands against the sheets, so Hannibal figured he’d take that for a yes. Another lick made the same thing happen, so he decided not to stop a good thing just yet. He slashed his tongue across that shaft, a tease here, a tease there, as if it was a tress on a flogger. Each swipe, each flick made the kid thrash harder, breathe faster, squirm more.

“Sexy as all hell,” he said between licks and kisses. “Bet I don’t even have to get my lips around it before you go off like Old Faithful, though. Should we see?”

“M-mm-mmmm,” Hermann purred—actually goddamn purred. And hell if that wasn’t enough to Make Hannibal take that swollen head into his mouth and work it over with his tongue.

Just about ten seconds later, the kid bucked his hips up with a sharp little cry to heaven and filled the glove up with heat.

_Unreal_ , Hannibal thought as he helped kiss the kid back down from the stars again. When Hermann’s breathing evened out a bit, Hannibal pinched the condom and rolled it back up his softening length. In the bathroom, he tied it off and tossed it in the trash and ran some hot water over a washcloth. Hermann was slumped against the pillows when he returned to the room, breathing low and deep; he sighed happily as Hannibal ran the warm terrycloth over his cock, sac, and thighs, cleaning up the last little drips of cum and sweat.

God Almighty, half a blowjob and the kid blew like a whole damn strand of Christmas lights.

“Hannibal…,” Hermann said drowsily, and Hannibal hesitated mid-wipe.

“Yeah, gorgeous? I’m here.”

“So very tired.” Those eyelashes were fluttering down like autumn leaves.

“Yeah. That’s okay. That happens sometimes.”

“Can’t. The ferry...”

“It’s barely 1000 now,” Hannibal said with a glance at his wristwatch. “I’ll let you sleep an hour or two. Plenty of time to get you up and back home before curfew.”

“Curfew,” Hermann repeated lethargically. “Just half an hour…forty-five minutes?”

“Whatever you want, baby.”

“Mn. Baby.” And just like that, as if someone had switched off his power, Hermann melted off into sleep.

“Yeah,” Hannibal whispered as he tucked the blankets up around the kid’s bare, bony body. “Baby.”

He leaned in close and kissed that pale, creased forehead before straightening up and sighing. After a quick trip to the bathroom to wash his hands, Hannibal left the room, switching off lights as he went until only the bedside lamp bathed Mouthy’s face, nearly spotlighting him.

_Cut it out_ , Hannibal told himself after he’d stared at the angles of the kid’s cheekbones for a good two minutes. _Go and take care of business before you embarrass your damn self._

It was true. All that writhing and those sexy little noises out on the couch had gotten him hard enough to pound nails, and touching the kid all over and fucking him with his mouth had…well, hell. If Mistress Kira hadn’t taught him more than a thing or two about holding off his orgasms, he would’ve wrecked a ten thousand dollar suit a few times over, that was for sure. As it was, he barely got himself back to the couch and that ten thousand dollar placket open before he was jacking off into a silk handkerchief that cost a good five hundred bucks. Wasn’t as nice as the kid’s thighs, or mouth, or ass was gonna be, but staining up something pricy but not too pricy was always pretty sexy; he’d take that for now.

After cleaning up with another handkerchief and some hand sanitizer for his palms, Hannibal straightened his vest and settled in for some work on his iPad in case Hermann woke up in the next few hours and panicked to find he wasn’t there.

He didn’t.

***

“Gotta get up, kid.”

Gottlieb burbled something he couldn’t make out and didn’t open his eyes.

“C’mon, beautiful,” Hannibal tried again. “It’s midnight. Stay too much longer and I might just have to keep you for the winter.”

More incoherent murmuring. Hermann flailed an arm up over his face as if to deny the existence of sound.

Hannibal ran a hand through his hair and decided to hell with it. The boy had suffered enough for one week. After closing the door so he wouldn’t wake up Sleeping Beauty, he went back to the sofa and called up the number for “Sherlock.” He didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

“Pentecost.” Clean, cool, businesslike as always.

“Hiya, Marshal. How’s tricks?”

“What do you want, Mr. Chau?” And just like that, clean and cool chilled right on down into Siberia.

Well, Hannibal thought with a grin, two could tango to this beat. “Aw, now,” he purred, cranking up the sleazy charm in return. “Is that any way to talk to your new business partner? C’mon, Pentecost. Last we did this dance, I thought we were getting downright chummy.”

“I repeat my first question: What. Do you. Want?”

Hannibal settled on the couch with a chuckle and flicked his balisong out of his pocket. “Down to the meat already, huh? Okay, here’s the deal: Gottlieb’s staying with me tonight.”

“No, _Dr._ Gottlieb is not.”

“Woah, woah, now.” Hannibal twirled the knife through his fingers. “Before you send out the cavalry, let a man finish a thought. He’s not coming back to you not because I want more than my share of milk from the cow, but because he’s worn out—and no, before you ask, it’s not because I’m just that good in the sack—though of course I am. Nah, he came to me that way.”

“I’m sure you understand the considerable strain Dr. Gottlieb is working under,” Pentecost said. The “because of you” at the end was so heavily implied, Hannibal actually felt it bludgeoning him in the forehead. He didn’t hold back his chuckle. God damn, the man’s tone was so caustic, if you bottled it, you could strip the ugly right off a Kaiju.

“Strain you think I’m adding to, right? Yeah, I sure as hell understand. Just him and some American burnout doing the work of a hundred people?” Hannibal tsked and stabbed his knife into an apple. “Obscene, what those UN meatheads are putting y’all through. And you got my sympathies, Marshal.”

“It’s midnight, Mr. Chau. You know the agreement. If Dr. Gottlieb is not returned safely in two hours, I will send reinforcements.”

“So what you’re saying is, you want me to shake him out of a nice, deep sleep when he hasn’t slept nice and deep in God know when, drag him into a cab, toss his cute little behind onto a ferry in the fog, and send his Kaiju guts on Monday, same as usual? Not gonna happen, friend. Christ, I’m a heartless SOB, but there’s heartless and then there’s heartlessly following orders.”

“Dr. Gottlieb’s asleep?”

“Tell me something: you ever think this asinine timetable of yours is the thing stressing him out, rather than a dirty old man that just wants to feel him up some?”

“No, I can’t say that I had.” Pentecost’s tone was downright subzero now.

Hannibal wrenched his knife out of the apple and circled it lazily through the air, like he was a teacher explaining a math problem— _Heh. Bet my boy’d like that image._ “ So let me help you out a bit. You send Gottlieb out at seven, he gets here at eight, eight thirty. Now, seeing that I actually do pride myself on Southern hospitality, I like to put some food in him before I put anything else in him.” He sure hoped Pentecost was wincing now. “So that gets our festivities started by about, oh, nine, nine thirty. That gives us about two hours of playtime before he’s gotta get cleaned up and get back to the ferry so he can check in and keep you from wrecking the deal by sending your people to piss me off. Pop quiz, now: with all those deadlines ping-ponging around in his brain, you think he’s thinking about getting me off, or about making it home on time so you don’t go off?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“No can do, Marshal. Like I said, he’s sound asleep, and if I’ve got to personally kick the ass of every ranger you’ve got working for you to keep him that way, well, you do what you think’s best. He needs a good night’s rest, you know it and I know it. The hell have you been doing to him all week, anyway?”

He was surprised to hear the marshal chuckle.

“You think this is funny,” he deadpanned.

“No, Mr. Chau. My only remaining engineer working himself to death despite my orders and despite what little support I can offer him is one of the least funny things I’ve dealt with in recent memory. But I am amused that you think so little of my leadership, despite all of the intelligence-gathering on me your people have done over the years.”

Hannibal grinned. “Nah, Marshal. I think you’re a pretty fine leader—both you and that Australian, actually. That’s why I’m surprised you think so little of _me_. Let me put it this way: I like boning that engineer. I want to keep boning him for a real long time. And your people’ve been spying on me just as much as I’ve been on you. Any of them tell you I’m the kind of guy that shoots the goose that lays the golden eggs cuz I suddenly got a craving for foie gras? C’mon, Marshal. That ain’t how you get to be in my shoes—or get shoes like mine, for that matter.”

“You’ve heard the story of the frog and the boiling pot, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, both you and Gottlieb have a boner for it a mile long.” Hannibal put his feet up on the table and returned his balisong to his vest. “Look. Of course this is about me rolling around with him in the sheets a bit longer. Seeing as I like them scrawny, mouthy, and nerdy, you can’t hardly blame me for getting interested when there’s blood in the water. But you know where I live. I can get my rocks off any time day or night in any way I want here, and it’s not like every shy, skinny scientist that works for me wouldn’t drop and suck me off if I told them to.”

Okay, so maybe not. But like Pentecost could even check on that.

“But despite what some people think, I ain’t Hitler, and I ain’t gonna take a few hundred miles if you give me a couple inches. Especially if those inches make that poor kid of yours look and act and feel a little less like death warmed over and a bit more human. You get me?”

Pentecost was silent for a moment. “I want video proof that he I safe. In real time.”

“Not my kink, sorry.”

“If you want me to call off my rangers, Mr. Chau, then I need more assurance than just your word. So you either wake Dr. Gottlieb up so I can hear this from him, or you send me real-time footage where I can clearly see that he is there of his own free will, and resting.”

“Well, ain’t you the best fairy godmother at the ball,” Hannibal growled.

“Thank you, Mr. Chau. I’m damned proud of that fact.”

“All right, fine.” Hannibal levered himself to his feet and tucked his pad under his arm as he stalked toward the bedroom door. “But you better delete this on sight. I don’t want the kid to bite my nuts off one day when he realizes I was making him a porn star without his say-so.”

“It may surprise you to learn this, but I’m not in the habit of using my staff for unsavory purposes.”

“And you think I am? Why thanks, Marshal! That means a lot! Now shut your yap. I’m getting your footage.”

Gottlieb was still sleeping when he opened the door, though he must have moved a bit, because the blanket had shifted off his left shoulder, revealing the nice love bite blooming like an orchid near his collarbone. Hannibal covered him back up—thankful that he’d decided to leave the bedside lamp on—and switched on the pad’s recorder, entered Pentecost’s number, and let the feed roll. He held the camera steady on the kid for a good thirty second, panned over to the clock on the bedside table, then turned the camera on himself and gave Pentecost a flashy smile and a bird before turning the camera off and leaving the room.

“You see that?”

“I saw it.”

“You delete that?”

“Do you really need to ask me?” Pentecost snapped.

“Just checking, pal. Now, is that enough for you, or do you really want me to nudge that pretty thing awake so you can harass him?”

Pentecost sighed. “The first ferry is at 1130,” he said. “If he isn’t on it, I don’t care how much you make excuses; our deal terminates. And that goes for every night from here on out, if and only if he wants to stay with you.”

“I’ll make sure to set an alarm.” Hannibal grinned. “Thanks for letting him sleep over, Marshal. It’s been real.”

He ended the call before Pentecost could find something else to complain about.

Back in the bedroom, Hermann was still sleeping like the dead, flat on his back with his arms at his sides. Good for that knotty back and that leg, sure, but not as good as being tucked up against a big warm body would be. Too far, too fast, though—and anyway, Hannibal wasn’t about to just crawl in there with him and play little spoon, big spoon uninvited, and a sleepy invitation didn’t count in his book.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the view for just a bit more without feeling like the bad kind of pervert. Relaxing looked good on Hermann Gottlieb. Softened the lines around his eyes and mouth and forehead that had no business being so deep on the face of a thirty-six-year-old with as good a complexion as that. While Hannibal couldn’t see his hands, he would’ve bet they were shaking less too. Nerve damage and/or brain damage was one thing, sure, but Hannibal was pretty sure some of those tremors came from stress.

_Innocent when you dream_ , he thought as he switched off the light and made for the lounge again.

Nah, that was a bad song in this context. Kid’d had enough heartbreak to have any coming from him.

Not that he’d typically care. Other people’s hearts were their own business, and you didn’t carry a scorpion across the river without expecting to get stung, after all. But if Hannibal played his cards right—and he always did—that wouldn’t be a problem.

“Hmm.” Hannibal took a swig of alcohol. _Okay, hoss. Now you’re getting damn right sentimental. Just stick to the plan. Jaegers first._

Speaking of the damned things. Since the festivities with Hermann had ended early, he’d better get back to that prep work for moving all that junk to Vladivostok so Midori’s scientists could make themselves useful. He settled onto the couch with his bourbon and pulled out his tablet.

But first a message to Yayoi. He scrolled through the contacts until he found the name “Little Sister-in-Law.”

_Keeping Gottlieb for the night_ , he typed to her in Cantonese. _Got the a-okay from his jailer. Do something to distract your missus so I don’t get an earful?_

The reply came back almost immediately.

_Tell her yourself, asshole. Some of us want pussy tonight._

Hannibal snorted.

_Then give her pussy so I don’t have to justify myself! Why do I always have to come up with all the ideas around here?_

The little animated thing Yayoi sent back just made a series of obscene gestures at him. Hannibal snorted and shut the message. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about arguing with his second tonight when he had shipments to plan, people to mobilize, and some elusive but necessary parts to dig up if Midori’s scientists wanted to actually get off their asses and do something while they waited for their master coder to show up and work his magic.

Thank God they weren’t ready for nuclear shit just yet. Sneaking that kind of tech around the world was _not_ something Hannibal was looking forward to coordinating.

Hm. Midori’s scientists.

Kid needed some techs, right?

Hannibal selected “Too Sour” in his contact list and smirked when the woman in question picked up right before it went to voice mail.

“Fucking Chau-Chau,” Midori grumbled. “Fucking 0300. What the fuck do you want?”

He couldn’t help smirking as he imagined her grinding sleep from her eyes as her men of the evening cursed on either side of her.

“Sweet as a daisy just like always, huh?”

“Say what you need to say, or go fuck yourself with your balisong. Actually, just fuck yourself with your balisong.”

“You’re funny.” Hannibal twirled it through his fingers. “Listen, lady. I need you to do something for me, contingent on my taking this piece of shit Shatterdome off your hands.”

“So call me back during fucking business hours!”

A deep baritone told her to “Just hang up on the asshole” in Russian.

“That Fyodor or Andrzej? Nikita? Can’t ever keep your beaus straight. Okay, enough with the fun and games. Gottlieb needs a little help wrapping things up before he comes over to the dark side of the Force. Can you send a couple of your J-Sci types to the Shatterdome over here to give my boy a hand or four?”

“What.”

“Two, three, maybe? However many you can spare. If they know how to do statistics and coding shit, that’s essential.” Another thing occurred to him. “Oh, yeah. And find a good massage therapist too. Especially if they also know some Western medicine. And send them along.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, Chau-Chau! I’ll get right on that!” Midori trilled, her voice all sunshine and lollipops and acid. “Why the _fuck_ couldn’t that have waited, you _gaijin_ bastard?”

“Oh, now, let’s not get personal, Midori. You know I keep late hours. Figured you did too. Time difference ain’t that big between HK and Vladivostok.”

Well, three hours or so, but who was counting? Sure not him!

“I’m calling this deal off.”

“Oh, bullshit you are,” Hannibal retorted. “You need me way the hell more than I need you, princess. You know you’re up shit’s creek in a sinking dingy and you and your mob buddies are gonna lose your investment; that’s why you came to me in the first place. So, you gonna help me, or am I gonna withdraw my bid?”

Midori grumbled a few words that he couldn’t make out—probably some instructions to her equally pissed-off Slavic bed partners. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll take care of it. But if you ever call me at this time again—”

“Uh-huh.” Hannibal disconnected the call and went back to work.

Only the best for his boy, and Midori’d provide the best if she knew what was good for her. And she was too smart not to.

Huh. His boy.

Hannibal took another sip of his bourbon and smirked. _And why the hell shouldn’t I call him that?_

Mouthy little thing was gold-star mob material whether he knew it or not and whether or not he cared to be. And by the time they were done here, he’d not only want to stay on to play with his giant robots, but for the positions his man would put him in night after night.

Wasn’t like half the other gangsters in Hong Kong didn’t have eye candy they kept around on a more permanent basis. A bunch of ’em were even married, officially or not—hell, his right-hand lady had been with his chief bodyguard for how many years now? Yeah. Bribe Mouthy with some nice tech to get him in a ten-thousand dollar suit, put him on the arm of a feared and powerful hardass like yours truly, and presto. The bone slum’s “power couple,” as Johnny would put it, would be in business.

Hannibal closed his eyes and shifted on the sofa. God damn, waking up with that sexy thing in his arms every morning and giving him the dicking Hermann was practically salivating for…

_Okay, okay, stop it_ , Hannibal thought before said dick got too into the idea. _You’ll get your jollies soon enough. Don’t scare him off._

He tried to get back to work, but it was slow going. Wasn’t as easy to pull all-nighters as it used to be, now he was on the wrong side of fifty, and he’d have to get up pretty early in the morning to keep Mouthy from blowing a gasket when he realized where he was. Another glass of Kentucky’s Finest later and he was fighting back the yawns. His own bed sounded only slightly less tempting than the one Mouthy was currently cuddled up in, but damned if he was going to wander off. Hermann said he wasn’t afraid of anything, but that was grade-A bullshit; Hannibal would bet nickels to nickel bags that the kid would be frantic if he either woke up alone in a building full of dangerous people with no Mr. Chau in sight, or warm next to a very, very happy Mr. Chau who would probably need to take care of some morning wood.

The couch was long enough to accommodate his frame. He’d had it placed in this wonderful little room exactly so he could stretch out with a nice little submissive curled up on his chest after an intense scene or two—and there had been plenty of nice little submissives over the thirty-three years he’d been on his own, a real free agent.

Sometimes that was still hard to believe.

Shit. The day he’d cut and run from that godforsaken place, the kid had been what? Four, three years old? Probably working out equations in his Cheerios.

_How about that. Guess time catches up with us all._

Hannibal didn’t bother to set an alarm. Over fifty-five years, he’d learned to sleep anywhere and everywhere and wake up exactly when he needed to. Simple, really—you either adapted to the stressors of the environment, or they killed you. And nothing said fatal like a guy three times your age with three times your strength who you either took out, or told your boss you couldn't take out.

And said boss? A hell of a lot scarier than your target.

He wouldn’t think about that now.

He’d think about the kid in the room, pretty as money and music and elegant as wisteria.

_Makes me damnright poetical_ , Hannibal thought as he rolled onto his side, yawning.

He dreamed of long fingers spidering out lines of code the unearthly color of Kaiju blue.


End file.
